An Order for Death

Chapter 12

THE FOLLOWING DAY WAS EASTER SATURDAY, AND Bartholomew attended the obligatory services in the church, ate his meals and worked on his treatise on fevers, trying not to dwell on what he planned to do that night. As evening approached, the clouds thinned, so that flashes of golden sun started to break through them. By dusk, they had fragmented to the point where there were only a few banks left, each one tinged salmon pink as the sun began to set. Cheered by the sight of a clear sky after so many overcast days, Bartholomew wandered into the orchard, and watched the bright orange globe sink behind the trees at the bottom of the garden. The clouds seemed more vividly painted than he had ever seen them before; they glowed amber and scarlet, before fading to the shade of dull embers and then to a misty purple as darkness fell.

He walked back to his room, lit a candle and worked a little longer. The bell rang for the evening meal, and he picked at the unwholesome mess of over-boiled cabbage and under-cooked beans without much appetite. The students were in a state of barely suppressed excitement, because it was the last day of Lent and the following morning would see all the miserable restrictions lifted. When he found part of a dead worm in the shredded cabbage that was heaped on his trencher, Bartholomew began to long for the end of Lent, too.

Michael sat next to him, crowing triumphantly over the fact that Heytesbury had finally signed his document, somewhat unexpectedly, and that the nominalist would leave Cambridge the following day. Father William was of the opinion that Heytesbury should leave before he had given his lecture, because he did not believe that the Oxford man would be able to resist talking about nominalism. Bartholomew hoped William was wrong, certain that if one philosophical tenet passed Heytesbury’s lips, the man was likely to be lynched by rabid realists waiting for just such an opportunity.

While Michael tried to inveigle himself an invitation to consume another barrel of Langelee’s excellent wine, Bartholomew returned to his room and dressed for his pending raid on Brother Timothy’s quarters. He donned thick black leggings, a dark woollen jerkin, and shoes that were easier to climb in than his winter boots. He was reaching for one of his surgical knives, in case he needed to use force to prise open a window, when Cynric slipped into his chamber.

‘Are you ready?’ the Welshman asked. ‘If we can have this finished in less than two hours, I will still be able to go to the Easter vigil. Ely Hall is only a stone’s throw from St Mary’s Church.’

‘You plan to come with me?’ asked Bartholomew, pleased. ‘You believe that Timothy and Janius are the killers?’

‘Not really,’ said Cynric bluntly. ‘But I do not want you to do this alone. I was hoping that the delay I recommended yesterday would make you see sense, but I can tell from the expression on your face that you intend to go ahead with this foolery.’

‘It is not foolery,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tonight we will see a pair of murderers revealed.’

‘If you say so,’ said Cynric. ‘Well, come on, then. I do not want to be breaking into other people’s property all night. It is too cold.’

It felt odd to be gliding through the darkness with Cynric moving like a ghost in front of him. Bartholomew and Cynric had shared many such nocturnal adventures, which Bartholomew was sure the Welshman had enjoyed a lot more than he had, but the physician’s life had been blissfully free of them for several months. A familiar uneasiness settled in his stomach, and he found his hands were shaking, although whether it was as a result of the cold of the starlit night or from anticipation, he could not say.

He followed Cynric along the High Street, where everything was in complete darkness, except for one house where the cries of a baby indicated a sleepless night for the hapless parents. A dog howled in the distance, like a wolf, and the sound sent shivers down Bartholomew’s spine. He glanced up at the sky: the stars glittered and twinkled so brightly that he could make out the outlines of the road and the ditches below, even though the moon was temporarily hidden behind a lone cloud.

‘Here we are, lad,’ said Cynric, gazing up at the dark mass in front of him that was Ely Hall. ‘What now? Shall I pick the lock on the door, or were you planning on entering through a window?’

Bartholomew had not been planning anything. He had thought little beyond the fact that he needed to enter Timothy’s room at a time when the Junior Proctor was out. He gazed helplessly at Cynric, and the Welshman sighed.

‘Come with me around the back. The last time I was here, I noticed that the kitchen is a lean-to shack in the yard. You may be able to climb on top of it and force a window upstairs.’

Bartholomew was having serious misgivings about the wisdom of what he planned to do. Suddenly, it seemed madness to break into the private chamber of the Junior Proctor, especially given that the Senior Proctor had told him that he had no right to do so. But Bartholomew could see no other way forward; the thought of a murderer patrolling the streets and dispensing his own justice to scholars who flouted the University’s rules was not an attractive proposition.

Forcing his uneasiness to the back of his mind, Bartholomew followed Cynric down a stinking alley that led to the rear of Ely Hall. The stench was eye-watering, since the Benedictines had apparently been using it as a latrine instead of going to the public ones in the Market Square. Lazy cooks, who could not be bothered to take their waste to the river, had left their mark on the yard, too, and rotting cabbage stalks, unusable parts from joints of meat and old trenchers sodden with grease all festered together in a slimy mass that was as slick as ice under Bartholomew’s shoes.

‘Timothy’s room is that one,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to the tiny window, little more than a slit, that was above and to one side of the shack that acted as a kitchen. He frowned as he tried to recall details of Ely Hall from his visits to tend Brother Adam. ‘That larger window to the right is a small landing. I think I should be able to squeeze through it.’

He felt Cynric gazing at him witheringly in the darkness. ‘Why do you think I suggested we enter this way? I know where Timothy’s room is, and I know the landing window is large enough for you to enter. How many more times must I tell you that if you intend to break into someone else’s property, you should have a feel for the layout first?’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, hoping it was not something he would have to do again.

‘Here,’ said Cynric, moving an abandoned crate carefully, so as not to make a noise. ‘Climb on this, and see whether you can prise open the window. It will be dark inside, do not forget. How do you plan to see what you are doing?’

‘There was a candle on the table when I was last here,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘I think it is better to risk a light and search quickly, than to fumble around in the dark for longer.’

‘Did you bring a tinder to light the candle?’ asked Cynric.

It was Bartholomew’s turn to treat Cynric to a withering look. ‘I am not that incompetent. And before you feel the need to suggest it, I know I should lay a blanket across the bottom of the door to hide the light from any restless Benedictines who happen to be passing, too.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Cynric, impressed. ‘I can see I taught you well after all.’

Bartholomew scrambled inelegantly on to the crate, wincing when his hands touched something soft that stank, and then heaved himself on to the kitchen roof. Using his knife, he then prised open the hall window. Cynric indicated that he should enter, and made a sign that he would keep watch by the entrance of the alleyway. Bartholomew was horrified.

‘Are you not coming with me?’

‘It is you who wants to raid a Benedictine’s chamber, lad,’ whispered Cynric hoarsely. ‘Not me. I will hoot like an owl if I hear anything. Good luck and do not be long.’

He had slipped soundlessly down the runnel before Bartholomew could suggest that Cynric did the burgling while Bartholomew kept watch. The Welshman was far better at such things, and the physician felt sure he would have the document in a trice and then they could both go back to Michaelhouse to tell Michael what they had done. Bartholomew gazed at the open window with trepidation, took a deep breath to steady his pounding heart, and started to climb through it. Feeling as though the Benedictines who were asleep in the adjoining chambers would have to be deaf not to hear the racket he was making, he clambered on to the landing, then stood still for a few moments, straining his ears for any sound that might indicate he had been heard. Opposite, Janius’s room was still and silent.

Bartholomew groped his way along the darkened corridor. He located the door to Timothy’s chamber with his outstretched hands, and listened for a few moments before carefully lifting the latch and stepping inside.

He recalled that a candle had been set on the table near the window, and reached out cautiously until he encountered wood. He located the candle and withdrew the tinder he carried tucked in his shirt, blinking as a dim light filled the room. Before he forgot, he took a blanket from the bed and dropped it against the door. And then he looked around.

For a moment, when he saw the neat room with its plain wooden cross nailed to the wall, he thought he had been gravely mistaken and that his invasion of Timothy’s privacy had been unwarranted, but then he saw that the blanket he had used to block the door was no blanket at all; it was a heavy black cloak. He poked at it, noting that it had been freshly laundered. Yolande had been telling the truth, and the grey cloak that Timothy had worn had nothing to do with her washing of it. Bartholomew glanced at the row of hooks on one of the walls. A grey cloak hung there. He inspected the inside of the collar, where the tailor had sewn a small mark that indicated it had been made for the Franciscan Order. It was Pechem’s.

He took a deep breath. Finding the cloak was good, but it was not conclusive evidence of Timothy’s guilt. What he needed to find was the essay that seemed to have been the cause of so many deaths. He began to search, resisting the temptation to ransack blindly, and forcing himself to be methodical. Timothy had gone to considerable trouble to gain possession of the text, and would hardly leave it lying around somewhere obvious.

Wax dripped as he began to inspect the floorboards, knowing such places were popular as hiding places. Sure enough, there was a loose plank, and Bartholomew prised it up quickly. In the small cavity below was a dirty scrip, stained with blood. Bartholomew was in no doubt that it had belonged to Faricius. He dug deeper, and emerged with a second purse, this one in immaculate condition and decorated with flowers and butterflies, consistent with the one of Kyrkeby’s that Ringstead had described.

A noise from the hall made him freeze in alarm. Brother Adam began to cough, loudly and desperately, and it sounded as though he could not catch his breath. Thumping footsteps on the stairs and on the landing outside suggested that the brothers were panicking, not knowing how to help the old man, despite the fact that they had watched Bartholomew prepare soothing balsams for him at least twice and he had even written the instructions down for them.

The coughing grew worse, and Bartholomew was in an agony of indecision. The physician in him longed to throw open the door and go to the old monk’s aid, knowing that he could ease the problem within moments. But then he would have revealed himself, and he would never have another opportunity to search the room of the man he was certain was a killer.

‘Brother Timothy has it, I believe,’ came the voice of one of the monks, edged with fear. ‘Shall I see if I can find it?’

Bartholomew’s heart leapt into his mouth as the latch on Timothy’s door began to rise. Quickly, he pinched out the candle, and was only just under the table when Brother Janius burst in holding a lamp. Bartholomew held his breath when the skirts of Janius’s habit swung so close to his face that he could make out the individual fibres in the cloth. The monk then rummaged among documents on the very table under which Bartholomew crouched.

‘Here we are,’ Janius said suddenly, and Bartholomew heard the rustle of parchment. ‘I knew it was Timothy who had taken Bartholomew’s instructions.’

He left as abruptly as he had entered, leaving the room in darkness. Bartholomew released a shuddering breath, and tried to quell the fluttering in his stomach. He heard more footsteps pounding on the stairs as hot water was fetched, and there was a clank as someone produced a metal bowl in which to mix the herbs and water so that Adam could inhale the steam. The frightened rasp of Adam’s laboured breathing began to ease.

Bartholomew began to relax, too, and was considering resuming his search when he realised that Janius must have noticed the cloak that lay across the bottom of the door. Would he assume it had fallen there? But it was fairly obvious that the garment had been placed in position by someone inside the room, and that it had not coincidentally fallen in such a way as to block light. With a surge of panic, Bartholomew scrambled out from under the table, half expecting Janius to burst into the chamber and catch him red-handed.

He glanced at the ambry in the far corner, not knowing whether to risk a few more moments to complete his search, or whether to count his blessings and leave while he still could. Instincts of self-preservation urged him to go, but he knew he would never have such a chance again – Timothy would know someone had been in his room because there was candle wax all over the floor, and Bartholomew intended to take the two purses he had recovered to Michael. If Bartholomew did not find the essay first, Timothy would move it elsewhere, and it would never be found. Reluctantly, he made his decision and turned towards the ambry, fumbling with the latch. It was entirely the wrong thing to have done. The door burst open and a sudden light flooded the room.

‘Is this what you were hoping to find, Matthew?’ asked Janius pleasantly, holding aloft a sheaf of parchment. ‘Here is Faricius’s essay. I assume that is what you were looking for?’

Timothy closed the door behind them, a hefty broadsword in one hand. ‘Do not even think of howling for help, Doctor. If you so much as try, I will kill you.’

For several moments, Bartholomew was too shocked to speak. He looked from the pile of parchments that Janius held, to Timothy’s amiable face with its ready smile. Behind Timothy, Janius’s blue eyes, which usually gleamed with the light of religious fervour, now seemed cold and sinister.

‘How did you know I was here?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to keep his voice steady and not to look at the monstrous sword that Timothy brandished with practised ease.

Janius continued to grin. ‘We expected you yesterday, but we knew you would come sooner or later. We have been waiting.’

‘But how did you know?’ asked Bartholomew again.

‘We met Simon Lynne strolling along the High Street last night,’ said Janius. ‘He was under the impression that he was safe, but he told us all about your suspicions before we killed him and hid him in the tunnel so conveniently vacated by Kyrkeby. It was a squeeze, given that the thing has collapsed, but it will do for now.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. The intense blue gaze was just as sincere when he talked about murder, as it had been when he had talked about his God. The physician tried to suppress a shudder.

‘I see you found my well-laundered black cloak,’ said Timothy, nodding at the garment that lay on the floor.

‘I found the grey one you stole from Pechem, too,’ said Bartholomew.

‘And the scrips that belonged to Kyrkeby and Faricius,’ said Janius, looking at the two purses that lay on the table. ‘Timothy took them, so that Michael would believe that some passing outlaw was at work, murdering men for the contents of their purses. It would have worked, if you had not insisted on looking for other motives.’

‘You took Walcote’s scrip and left it near Barnwell Priory for Sergeant Orwelle to find,’ said Bartholomew, looking hard at Janius. ‘You had it in the basket you claimed was filled with food for the lepers. But the lepers received no food from you that day – or any other day this Lent.’

‘We have been feeding the riverfolk,’ said Janius, offended that his good works were being questioned. ‘We cannot provide for the whole town, and it has been a hard winter, even for us.’

‘You took Faricius’s essay from Paul yesterday,’ said Bartholomew, more bravely than he felt. ‘But only after you raided the Dominicans, Michaelhouse and the Barnwell Priory to look for it. You stole a glove when you burgled the Dominican Friary, and left it at Michaelhouse, so that we would accuse Morden of the crime.’

‘I was surprised you fell for that,’ said Janius, exchanging an amused glance with Timothy. ‘You must have seen that neither of us was small enough to be Morden when you tussled with us. Why did you allow Michael to believe it?’

‘He believed it because of the way the other glove dropped from the rafter when Michael slammed open Morden’s door,’ said Timothy gloatingly. ‘I flung it up there in the hope that Michael would see it “hidden”, but when it fell to the ground so conveniently – as if God Himself wanted you to see it – it made Morden appear more guilty than ever.’

‘Janius spoke to Father Paul,’ said Bartholomew, more interested in the raid on the Franciscan Friary than in how Timothy had laid false evidence against Morden. He watched Timothy test the blade of his sword with his thumb. It came away smeared with blood, indicating that it was very sharp. ‘Timothy kept silent, because he knew Paul would recognise his voice, while Janius demanded the essay.’

Janius inclined his head to indicate that Bartholomew had guessed correctly. ‘Obviously Paul could not see us, but we know his powers of observation are greater than those of many sighted men. We acted accordingly. As long as I never have cause to speak to him, he will never know our paths have crossed.’

‘If you spared Paul, why did you kill Arbury?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether he could shout and still evade the wicked blade Timothy wielded. He realised it would be hopeless. Timothy had been a soldier, and it had probably not been an empty boast when he promised to run Bartholomew through if he called for help. ‘There was no need to murder the lad.’

‘He recognised me,’ explained Timothy. ‘He addressed me by name, and politely offered to extract Michael from Langelee’s chamber, even though I had my hood pulled well over my eyes. We had a choice: we could abandon the notion of searching Michael’s room and fabricate some excuse as to why we were there, or we could continue with what we had planned.’

‘So, you chose the second option,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you left Arbury to die.’

‘It was a pity,’ said Timothy. ‘But there is more at stake here than the life of a student.’

‘Such as what?’ demanded Bartholomew, realising that even if he did manage to shout for help before he died, the other monks would merely applaud Timothy for protecting them against someone who had just forced a window to gain entry to their hostel. ‘What is more important than human lives?’

‘The University,’ said Timothy immediately. ‘It transcends all of us. We will be dead within a few years – sooner in your case – but the University will still be here for centuries to come.’

‘Not if it has people like you in it,’ said Bartholomew, startled by the monk’s claim. ‘The King will not want a University that is in the control of murderers and thieves.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Janius smoothly. ‘He needs the University to produce educated men to be his lawyers, secretaries and spies. He will not care what we do as long as we continue to provide him with what he wants. But we had a Senior Proctor who gave away University property to promote his personal ambition, and a Junior Proctor who was weak and ineffectual.’

‘Had?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Michael has not gone anywhere.’

‘Not yet,’ said Timothy. ‘But his days as Senior Proctor are numbered. I will take that position soon, and I shall appoint Janius as my deputy.’

‘Is that why you murdered Walcote?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because you want to be proctors?’

‘Why do you think we killed Walcote?’ asked Janius, giving the impression that he was merely amusing himself at Bartholomew’s expense. Bartholomew wondered how he ever could have imagined that the monk was a good man, when the glint in his eyes was so patently cruel and cold.

Bartholomew spoke quickly, seeing that the longer he could engage their interest, the longer he would live, although a nagging fear at the back of his mind told him that he was merely delaying the inevitable. ‘Lynne said he heard Walcote shouting at Kyrkeby until he had a fatal seizure and died. Lynne also heard “beadles” reminding Walcote of his appointment as Junior Proctor, and urging him to force the truth about the stolen essay from Kyrkeby. No beadles would have done such a thing. The “beadles” were you.’

‘Quite right,’ said Janius patronisingly. ‘Walcote was going to let that murdering Kyrkeby go, and was quite willing to believe the lying scoundrel when he said he did not have the essay.’

‘And did he have it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Of course he did,’ replied Janius scornfully. ‘When we pressed him, he admitted that he had been loitering around the Carmelite Friary, hoping to find one of Faricius’s friends, so that he could return it. He claimed he should not have stolen it, and wanted to give it back. Foolish man!’

‘This happened on Monday night,’ said Bartholomew. ‘By then, Chancellor Tynkell had decided to change the topic of Kyrkeby’s lecture, so Kyrkeby would not have needed Faricius’s essay anyway. He did not know it, but he killed Faricius for nothing.’

‘Walcote’s interrogation was pathetic,’ said Timothy in disgust. ‘Kyrkeby expected us to believe that he found Faricius already stabbed, and all he did was take his scrip.’

‘So, Kyrkeby handed Walcote the essay, but then his weak heart killed him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What happened next?’

‘Walcote offered to distract patrolling beadles, so that Timothy and I could hide Kyrkeby’s corpse without being seen,’ said Janius resentfully. ‘We should never have trusted him. We were furious when we realised that he had taken the essay.’

‘So furious, that you broke Kyrkeby’s neck and smashed his skull when you hid the body?’

‘No,’ said Timothy. ‘That was not our fault. The tunnel collapsed on him.’

‘But why was Walcote prepared to hide Kyrkeby’s body in the first place?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Why not just say that Kyrkeby’s heart had failed?’

‘We told Walcote that he would hang for murder if he tried that,’ said Janius smugly. ‘We said we should dispose of the body, so he recommended using the tunnel he had discovered earlier. Timothy climbed through it, pulling the body behind him.’

‘I reached the other side, and was in the process of dragging Kyrkeby after me when the tunnel caved in,’ explained Timothy. ‘I suppose a combination of exceptionally wet weather and having a heavy object dragged through it caused it to collapse. Unfortunately, I then found myself on the wrong side of the Carmelite Friary walls.’

‘How did you escape?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing at the small window to assess whether he could hurl himself through it before Timothy reached him. He could not: it was too small and he knew Timothy would get him before he even turned.

‘Walcote obligingly fetched a rope from St Mary’s Church,’ said Timothy. ‘He always did what he was told. He threw it to me, and I was able to climb out.’

‘And, of course, it came in useful to hang him with,’ said Janius, chillingly cold.

‘I am confused,’ said Bartholomew, glancing at the door and realising that his chances of reaching it before Timothy acted were even less than an escape through the window. ‘You killed once to gain possession of the essay, and you killed again because you wanted rid of Walcote. Which was more important – obtaining the essay or being appointed as proctors?’

‘One led nicely to the other,’ said Timothy. ‘Faricius’s essay is a brilliant piece of logic that no one has yet seen, because his narrow-minded Order forced him to keep his ideas hidden. But now he is dead, there is no reason why Janius and I cannot take credit for them. Blind Paul obviously has not read the essay and Lynne is dead, so no one will ever be able to prove that Faricius wrote what we will claim as our work.’

‘It will make us rich,’ said Janius smugly, ‘and we will be able to use the wealth that will accrue to spread the word of God among disbelievers. If the world does not mend its wicked ways, the plague will come again. It is my intention to prevent that.’

‘And is that why you want to become proctors?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because such positions of power will enable you to force your own rigid religious views on people?’

Janius’s blue eyes were hard. ‘It will be for their own good. If we do not want God to send another Great Pestilence, we must act now. Walcote was too weak, and Michael is a debauched glutton who is more interested in making suspect deals with Oxford than in safeguarding the spiritual well-being of the University. Neither was fit to be a proctor.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘Walcote uncovered a plot to kill Michael at Christmas: your plot.’

‘Unrealised plot, unfortunately,’ said Janius. ‘That stupid beadle drank so much with the money we paid him to deliver our message to a hired assassin, that he fell into a puddle and drowned. Walcote found the document, and started to investigate. It was me who suggested that it would be kinder not to tell Michael about it.’

‘And, as everyone knows, Walcote could be made to agree to anything,’ added Timothy. ‘When Janius said sharing such information would only upset Michael, he immediately agreed to keep it from him.’

‘Walcote told the men who attended his nocturnal meetings, though,’ said Janius, peeved. ‘I have no idea who told him to hold those gatherings, but I am sure they were not his own idea.’

‘They were,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He paid for St Radegund’s room with money he had seized from Master Wilson’s broken effigy. He believed he was acting in the best interests of the University.’

‘And look what he did,’ said Janius in disgust. ‘He encouraged the two factions in the realism – nominalism debate to argue with each other more fiercely than ever. The issue would never have become so violent if he had not provided a forum for like-minded men to whip each other into a frenzy. Stupid man!’

‘It did work in our favour, though,’ said Timothy thoughtfully. ‘It showed all those scholars that Walcote was acting behind Michael’s back, and that Michael was too incompetent to prevent it.’

‘Then why kill Walcote?’ asked Bartholomew, rubbing a hand through his hair. He was finding the discussion exhausting, and was not sure how much longer he could keep it up. And why should he try anyway? Help would not be coming. Even if Cynric thought he was taking too long, there would be little the book-bearer could do. ‘Why not wait until someone complained that Walcote was not the man for the job? Michael said his days as Junior Proctor were numbered.’

‘This business with Oxford forced us to act sooner,’ said Janius. ‘We do not approve of it.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Michael plans to use the information from Heytesbury to Cambridge’s advantage.’

‘No,’ said Janius. ‘He wants to use the information to ensure he will dine on good cheese and fresh butter for the rest of his days. Imagine how it will look when word spreads that the Benedictine Order dispenses with University property for the good of its stomach.’

‘Michael may have allowed people to believe that personal greed is his motive, but I can assure you it is not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was simply trying to fool Heytesbury into thinking he had the better end of the bargain. And it worked. Heytesbury signed the deed today.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Timothy, shocked. ‘We are too late?’

‘Then we should bring an end to this futile chatter,’ said Janius, indicating with a nod of his head that Timothy was to kill Bartholomew. ‘We must ensure that Heytesbury does not leave the town alive, and that Michael is blamed for his death.’

‘How did you kill Walcote?’ asked Bartholomew quickly, realising that he had made a mistake in mentioning the signed deed. While he found the company of the two monks distasteful, and disliked hearing their sanctimonious, gloating voices bragging about their cleverness, he was certainly not ready to die. ‘You hanged him the same night that Kyrkeby died.’

‘Enough questions,’ said Janius.

Timothy took a step towards Bartholomew, who quickly moved behind the table, and continued to speak in the same patronising, gloating tone. ‘While we were struggling to hide Kyrkeby, Walcote gave the essay to Father Paul. Walcote lied: he told us he was going to keep nosy beadles away, while all the time his intention was to hide the essay from us.’

‘We threatened to hang him unless he handed it over,’ said Janius. ‘He refused, and so he died. And that is what you are about to do.’

‘And how will you explain my corpse in your hostel?’ asked Bartholomew, desperate to keep them talking.

‘Your nephew,’ replied Timothy, coolly assessing which side of the table to approach. ‘He will be the perfect scapegoat for the murder of his uncle and his uncle’s friend.’

‘No one will believe that Richard would kill me or Michael,’ said Bartholomew, so defiantly that Timothy paused in his relentless advance. ‘He may be a fool, but he is no killer.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Janius. ‘First, lots of people heard you scolding him for his reprehensible treatment of Sergeant Orwelle the other day. Second, we all know how disgusted you are that he allowed the Black Bishop of Bedminster to try to eat Pechem. And third, no one likes Richard anyway. They will be only too pleased to see him accused of a crime.’

That was probably true, Bartholomew thought. Richard’s behaviour had won him no friends. ‘So, what is your plan?’ he asked, trying to keep the unsteadiness from his voice as he eased away from Timothy. ‘Whatever it is, there will be a flaw that will warn Michael before you harm him. You should know by now that he is not an easy man to fool.’

‘God will see that our plan works,’ said Janius confidently. ‘He has chosen us to do His bidding, and He will not let us fail.’

Bartholomew gazed at him. He had been afraid from the moment he had been caught, but Janius’s calm and serene conviction that what he was doing was good had just sent a new chill of fear through him. Bartholomew had learned from Father William that there was no arguing with a zealot, but Janius’s moral fanaticism was far more invidious than William’s crude dogmatism, because it was disguised by a coating of sugary goodness.

‘What are you going to do?’ he asked again, in another desperate attempt to delay the inevitable.

‘Brother Adam is unwell, and it is time he made a will,’ said Janius. ‘The best lawyer in Cambridge is Richard Stanmore – he told us so himself – and so we have sent for him. When he arrives, the pair of you will fight and he will kill you.’

Bartholomew was startled enough to laugh. ‘No one will believe that happened.’

‘But we will witness it,’ said Janius simply. ‘Who will disbelieve two Benedictine monks with a reputation for honesty and compassion?’

‘And I suppose Michael will then see what Richard has done, and they will kill each other in the ensuing struggle,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But Michael does not carry weapons; you should know that.’

‘He snatched up yours to parry Richard’s first blow,’ said Janius, unperturbed by the inconsistencies in his plot. ‘As the son of a nobleman, Michael had some knightly training before he joined the Church. His riding skills are legendary, and so there is no reason to assume that his Benedictine habit does not conceal a little-used talent for swordplay, too.’

‘And now,’ said Timothy, raising the sword and advancing on the physician again, ‘the time for chatter is over. Richard will be here soon, and I do not want to tackle two of you at the same time. Would you like to be absolved before you die?’

Bartholomew looked from the wicked edge of the sword to Timothy’s determined face, and knew that it was an offer he should consider very carefully.

‘The only person dispensing absolution tonight will be me,’ said Michael, opening the door and stepping into Timothy’s room. ‘You were right, Timothy. I am a practised swordsman, and even though my habit – and yours – forbids us to carry steel, I will fight you unless you put up your weapon immediately.’

Cynric was behind him, with his sharp sword, and a sudden clatter of voices, both in the building and in the street outside, indicated that they were not alone. The beadles had arrived, and so had Richard, pale and shocked, and holding his ornate dagger ineptly in one hand. The other Benedictines, seeming as appalled by the turn of events as was Richard, stood in the corridor and regarded their two brethren with a mixture of disbelief and unease.

‘It is over, Timothy,’ said Brother Adam, his face sickly white in the pale light of the lamp that he held. ‘We heard everything you said, including your admission that you killed Walcote and the lad at Michaelhouse. Put down your sword and surrender, before anyone else is hurt.’

‘Give ourselves to Satan?’ cried Janius, as he backed against a wall. ‘Never! What we did was good and right. We will not be put on trial by men who cannot see the truth through the veil of lies Michael and his associates have created.’

‘You confessed to murder,’ said Adam softly. ‘Nothing else is relevant. But we will have no more bloodshed. Put up your sword, Timothy.’

‘But we were so careful!’ whispered Timothy, aghast at the intrusion of armed men in his domain. ‘We watched Bartholomew grope his way along the corridor, and saw he was alone. We even left the front door open, so that he would be able to gain access more easily.’

Cynric gave a soft laugh. ‘I discovered that open door when I was keeping watch. At that point, I realised that he was expected. I chanced to meet Richard, who had been summoned by you, and I dispatched him to fetch Brother Michael instead.’

‘Cynric was all for rescuing Matt straight away,’ said Michael. ‘But I wanted to hear what you had to say first. We entered Ely Hall by the door you so obligingly left open, and have been royally entertained ever since.’

‘You were safe enough, lad,’ said Cynric kindly, seeing Bartholomew’s shock when he realised that Michael and Cynric could have rescued him much earlier. ‘I would not have let them harm you.’

Janius sneered at Michael. His quick mind had assessed his predicament, and he had reasoned that all was not lost. ‘Do you really think the people of Cambridge will believe you rather than us? Respectable men like Kenyngham and Pechem know that you stole from the Carmelite Friary and that you are in league with Heytesbury of Oxford.’

Michael shrugged. ‘The entire Benedictine community of Ely Hall just heard your confession. No one will doubt them.’

For the first time, Bartholomew saw Timothy’s mask of saintliness begin to slip; underneath was the face of a frightened man. ‘It was not us,’ he said, a note of desperation in his voice. ‘None of this was our idea.’

‘Give me your sword, and we will talk about it,’ said Michael, unmoved.

‘We were only obeying instructions,’ Timothy whined, a sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead and speckling the skin above his lips. ‘Do you really think we could have done this alone? Us? Two lowly men of God?’

‘Shut up,’ snapped Janius furiously. ‘They can prove nothing. The only evidence they have is an alleged confession overheard by a crowd of bumbling monks in ill health.’

Timothy was not convinced. ‘Perhaps we can come to some arrangement,’ he said, smiling nervously at Michael. ‘I will put up my sword and reveal to you the name of our associate; you will let me go free.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Michael icily. ‘You will hand me your sword, then you will come with me to the proctors’ cells, where you will await your trial.’

‘No gaggle of sinners will try us,’ said Janius viciously. Suddenly, there was a flash of metal, and Bartholomew saw that he held a dagger. He threw himself to one side as it whipped through the air towards him, then struggled to regain his footing as pandemonium erupted in the small room.

Timothy was wielding his sword in a series of savage arcs that threatened to decapitate anyone who went too close, while Janius was engaged in a deadly circling game with Cynric. With a howl of rage, Timothy turned on Bartholomew.

‘This is your fault! If you had not started questioning that grey cloak and telling Michael that the motive for the deaths of Kyrkeby, Walcote and Faricius was not the theft of their purses, then none of this would have happened. You deserve to die.’

Bartholomew ducked backwards as one of the blows whistled past his face, so close that he felt the wind of it on his skin. Timothy staggered with the force of the swing, but then recovered and prepared to make a swift end of the man he saw as the author of all his troubles. Michael tried to force his way into the room, but was blocked by Cynric and Janius, engaged in their own life or death struggle. Bartholomew came up hard against the wall, and knew he had nowhere else to go. Timothy raised the sword above his head in both hands and prepared to strike.

All at once, the expression on the monk’s face turned from fury to mild surprise. He dropped to his knees, and the sword clattered from his hands. Then he pitched forward, and Bartholomew saw the hilt of Richard’s decorative dagger protruding from his back. Richard gazed down at it, then looked up at Bartholomew, tears brimming in his eyes.

‘He laughed at my dagger yesterday,’ he said unsteadily. ‘He said it was all handle and no blade.’

‘There was blade enough to kill him,’ remarked Michael, still trying to insinuate himself through the door to put an end to the continuing skirmish between Janius and Cynric. ‘You did well, lad.’

‘Then it is the first thing I have done well since arriving in Cambridge,’ said Richard in a voice thick with self-pity. ‘I was looking forward to doing business with this pair, and now I discover they are killers. It is Heytesbury’s fault for befuddling my wits with wine. I have never felt so ill in my life as I have the last few days. I swear to you I shall never drink again. I will be a new man.’

Cynric’s eyes left Janius just long enough to wink at Bartholomew, to indicate his belief that the change in character was due to the charm he had applied. It was a mistake: Janius took advantage of his wandering attention to knock the Welshman from his feet. Bartholomew tensed, ready to spring at Janius and take him on with his bare hands if he threatened to harm Cynric. But Janius was not interested in the prostrate book-bearer; he had his sights fixed on larger prey.

‘You are no Benedictine,’ he hissed furiously, turning on Michael. ‘You are a fat, gluttonous pig who has no right to wear the sacred habit of a monk.’

Michael said nothing, but there was a blur of white followed by a sharp crack, and Janius staggered backwards holding his broken nose. Blood spurted from under his fingers and his dagger clattered to the floor.

‘I told you I would punch the next person who called me fat,’ said Michael mildly, rubbing the knuckles of one hand with the palm of the other. ‘Take him away, Cynric.’

Cynric leapt to his feet and pinned Janius against the wall, ignoring the monk’s cries of pain.

‘We were doing God’s will!’ shouted Janius, as Cynric began to haul him away. ‘It is you who are evil, and it is because of men like you that the Great Pestilence came in the first place. It will return if you are permitted to continue in positions of power.’

‘I thought the plague had come because some Cambridge scholars were nominalists,’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows in amusement. ‘That is what Lincolne told us.’

Janius glowered at him. ‘Lincolne is obsessed with the notion that nominalism is heresy. He is a fanatic.’

‘Unlike you, I suppose,’ said Michael wearily. ‘Take him away, Cynric. I want to hear no more of his raving.’

‘God will punish you for this!’ Janius howled, as he was wrestled out of the room and down the corridor. ‘He will not stand by and see evil men the victors. You will see.’

‘I hope he is wrong,’ said Richard nervously. ‘I thought his capture and Timothy’s death signified an end to all this vileness.’

‘They do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He is just ranting to unsettle us. He and Timothy were behind all this murder and mayhem, and neither of them is in a position to do anything more now.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew.

The following day was Easter Sunday. Clippesby’s predictions about the weather had been correct, and the rain clouds that had been dogging the town for the past few weeks were blown away by a cool, fresh wind from the south. The morning dawned with a blaze of gold when the sun made a rare appearance, and the sky was a clear and perfect blue.

Later than usual, because it was a Sunday, the Michaelhouse scholars gathered in their yard to process to St Michael’s Church for the high mass. There was an atmosphere of happy anticipation for the festival itself, the debate that was to follow in the afternoon and the feast that had been arranged for the evening. Every scholar seemed to have made an effort with his appearance to celebrate the end of Lent, and even Langelee’s exacting standards were surpassed by most of the students. Bartholomew had never seen so many polished shoes and brushed tabards.

In honour of the occasion, the Stanton silver had been brought out of the strong-room, and stood in a gleaming line along the altar. Patens, chalices and thuribles had been buffed until they shone like mirrors, and a new festive altar cloth, sewn by Agatha, was so brightly white that it hurt the eyes. The sun blazed through the east window, casting pools of coloured light into the chancel, and the parishioners had decorated the church with flowers of cream and yellow, so that the whole building was infused with the sweet scent of them.

Michael’s choir excelled themselves with an anthem they had been practising since Christmas, and the church rang with the joyous sound of their singing, making up in volume what they lacked in talent. Afterwards, the scholars spilled out into the sunlit churchyard, and Bartholomew saw that snowdrops were beginning to bloom among the grassy mounds. Langelee raised one lordly arm to indicate that his scholars were to fall in behind him, and began to lead the way back to Michaelhouse, where a special breakfast of oatmeal, eggs, boiled pork and fresh bread awaited them.

‘What a glorious day!’ exclaimed Michael, turning to the sun and closing his eyes, relishing its warmth on his flabby face. ‘Blue skies, a bright sun, the scent of spring in the air, and no murderers walking free on the streets of Cambridge.’

‘For now,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael jabbed him with his elbow. ‘It is a beautiful day and I am happy. Do not dispel my good temper by speculating any more on the unsavoury business of last night.’

‘But I still have questions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And so does Richard.’

‘Richard!’ spat Michael in some disgust. ‘That silly boy! Last night’s events will teach him not to play politics with men he does not know. Had that plan of Timothy and Janius’s worked, not only would he have been dead, but he would have forced his parents to live in the knowledge that he had killed you, too. It would have broken Edith’s heart.’

‘She would not have believed it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That was what I kept telling Timothy and Janius. They were basing their plan on actions that people would just not have taken: Richard would not have killed me in a fit of pique and you would not have killed him in retaliation.’

‘But they did not succeed,’ said Michael comfortably. ‘So it does not matter.’

They reached the College, and walked to the fallen apple tree in the orchard; they sat on its ancient trunk and rested their backs against the sun-warmed wall and waited for the breakfast bell to ring. The light danced across the thick green grass in tiny pools of brightness as it filtered through branches that were beginning to show signs of new leaves, and the town was unusually peaceful.

‘We have done well,’ said Michael, pleased with himself. ‘We have exposed two vicious killers and thwarted a plot that would have seen my beloved University in the hands of the excessively religious.’

‘So,’ said Bartholomew, trying to marshal his thoughts and summarise what had happened in chronological order. ‘In November last year, Timothy and Janius grew concerned by rumours – put about by Langelee – that you were involved in a scheme to pass Cambridge property to Oxford. They decided to act.’

Michael nodded. ‘At roughly the same time, weak Walcote started to arrange meetings at St Radegund’s Convent that would discuss important issues without my knowledge. These were paid for with coins he had grabbed when Wilson’s effigy spilled gold in the Market Square in November. He had been away in Ely while I was wrestling with that particular problem, but arrived back in Cambridge just in time to snatch himself a small fortune.’

‘He was also concerned by your Oxford connections, and was thinking about the time when he would be Senior Proctor. He wanted to impress the leaders of the religious Orders, who hold a good deal of power in the University. However, his gatherings merely aggravated the growing realism – nominalism debate and caused the conflict to escalate.’

‘Janius and Timothy hired a mercenary to kill me. Their messenger drowned in a drunken stupor, and Walcote came into possession of the letter to the assassin. Walcote was convinced by my Benedictine fellows that I should not be told about the plot. Meanwhile, I removed property for safe keeping from the Carmelite Friary and brought it here. Walcote assumed I was stealing, and said as much to everyone who attended his nasty meetings.’

‘Three months passed, and then two things happened at once,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, Kyrkeby murdered Faricius for his essay on nominalism and Walcote caught Kyrkeby, racked by guilt, trying to give it back. And second, Heytesbury appeared in Cambridge intending to find out more about the man with whom he proposed to do business.’

‘They were unrelated events,’ said Michael. ‘But they provided a perfect opportunity for Timothy and Janius to use a tragedy to further their own ends. Two days after Faricius’s death – on the Monday – Walcote discovered Kyrkeby lurking near the Carmelite Friary, probably while checking to see whether Lynne had sealed up the tunnel.’

‘I spent that afternoon with Kyrkeby,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was agitated and uncharacteristically uncommunicative. I thought it was because he was worried about his lecture, but I see now that it was a guilty conscience that was making him irritable and ill.’

‘Bullied by Timothy and Janius, Walcote badgered the guilt-ridden Precentor until he died,’ Michael continued. ‘Walcote then agreed to hide the body in the Carmelites’ tunnel.’

‘No one would have blamed Walcote for Kyrkeby’s death under the circumstances,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘But Timothy and Janius preyed on his insecurities. And at this point, Walcote revealed a grain of strength they had not anticipated.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘The fact that he escaped them for a few moments to hide the essay with Father Paul indicates that he was already worried by their motives. And he refused to tell them where he had put it, so they did as they threatened and hanged him.’

‘Then you played right into their hands by appointing Timothy as Junior Proctor the next day,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Your record of selecting good juniors is not impressive, Brother.’

Michael ignored him. ‘Janius allowed Walcote’s purse to be found, so that we would assume he had been killed by desperate outlaws, and he took Kyrkeby’s scrip for the same reason. You declined to accept that the three murders were committed for theft alone, and then they learned from Simon Lynne that you wanted to search Timothy’s room for the essay. Therefore, they were waiting for you when you effected that daring but ill-advised assault on their hostel.’

‘You refused to help,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What was I supposed to do?’

‘If their plan had been successful, you and Richard would have been murdered, with me “proved” to be the killer,’ continued Michael, ignoring the question. ‘Timothy would have appointed Janius as his Junior Proctor; the arrangements with Heytesbury would have fallen to pieces; and the University would have been under the power of two men who would have made additional fortunes by publishing Faricius’s essay under their own names.’

‘I still have three questions, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, why did Walcote hold his meetings at a place like St Radegund’s Convent? Second, why did he agree to hide Kyrkeby’s body in the Carmelite Friary tunnel? And third, what was that yellow sticky stuff on his and Faricius’s bodies?’

‘I doubt you will ever know the answer to the first question, Matt, but I can tell you the answer to the second. They were right outside the tunnel, and no one wants to traipse around the town with a corpse. It was simply a convenient hiding place.’

‘And the third?’

‘Lord knows,’ said Michael, sighing and stretching his feet in front of him, revealing a pair of monstrous white calves. ‘Frankly, I do not care.’

At that moment, the bell began to clang, summoning the Michaelhouse scholars for their Easter breakfast.

‘Good,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands happily. ‘All this thinking has given me an appetite. We will have breakfast, then go to the University debate. I would not want to miss hearing the great Heytesbury discussing life on other planets.’ He gave a malicious snigger.

‘He is still going to speak?’ asked Bartholomew, as they picked their way through the long grass towards the path that led to the kitchen door. ‘I thought he would have left with his deed as soon as he could hire a horse.’

Michael grinned wickedly. ‘He thinks he has bested me, and so feels no need to rush away. Heytesbury is now the proud owner of a church and a couple of farms that will cost him more to run than they will make. Meanwhile, I have several important bits of information secreted in one or two places.’

‘You cheated him,’ said Bartholomew, not particularly surprised. ‘You made him think he was gaining something valuable.’

‘Not cheated, Matt: outwitted. He should not have wasted his time coming to Cambridge to assess me. He should have gone to these properties and asked to inspect their records. I certainly would have done. But that is why Cambridge will always be superior to Oxford in all respects. We think with our minds, not our pockets. And speaking of pockets, you owe me an evening of fine wine and good food at the Brazen George.’

‘I do?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘Why is that?’

‘I told you we would resolve this by Easter Day, and we have.’

‘But you said the wager was invalid when you discovered you had more than one murder to solve,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And you failed to mention it was back on again.’

‘Well, I am mentioning it now,’ said Michael with a grin. ‘We will go after the debate.’

The recently rebuilt Church of St Mary was packed to overflowing with scholars from the University, as well as a few hardy souls from the town. The black robes of Benedictine monks, Austin canons and Dominican friars formed stark blocks among the pale grey of the Franciscans and the white of the occasional Cluniac monk. Between them were the blue tabards of Bene’t College, the black of Michaelhouse, and the various uniforms of Peterhouse, Clare Hall, King’s Hall and the other Colleges and hostels.

The church was a beautiful building, and its new chancel was made of bright sandstone and adorned with delicate pinnacles that reached towards the sky. As befitted a University church, it was the largest building in the town, raised to accommodate as many scholars as possible within its walls. The air rang with the sound of voices, some raised in cheerful greetings, some in laughter, and others in argument. Michael nodded to Meadowman, who inserted a group of elderly commoners from the Hall of Valence Marie between some Carmelites and Dominicans who were already eyeing each other challengingly, in the hope that they would keep the two factions apart.

‘This is a nightmare,’ remarked Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Usually, it is not necessary to keep rivals apart at debates, because even if people hold strong opinions, they are not usually committed to proving them with their fists. But this is different; everyone seems ready for a good fight today.’

‘Good morning, Brother,’ came Heytesbury’s smooth voice from behind him. The Oxford man looked pleased with himself in his ceremonial red gown, and Bartholomew wondered how long it would be before he discovered he had not done as well out of Cambridge as he had anticipated. Heytesbury nodded to the assembled hordes. ‘I am honoured. It seems almost every scholar in your University has come to bid me farewell.’

‘Michael tells me you are leaving today,’ said Bartholomew, politely making conversation.

Heytesbury smiled. ‘A clever man always knows the right time to make an exit. It is time now: Cambridge no longer holds any attraction for me.’

‘How unfortunate,’ said Michael ambiguously.

Heytesbury allowed his gaze to rove over the gathering crowd again. ‘I am astonished that Cambridge scholars are so keen to learn about life in other universes. Such a topic would not intrigue Oxford men. They are concerned with greater issues.’

‘Really,’ said Michael, bristling at the criticism. ‘Such as what, pray?’

‘The irrefutable premises of nominalism, for a start,’ replied Heytesbury immediately. ‘I am one of the foremost thinkers on the subject. I cannot imagine why you will not allow me to lecture on it here. Some of that rabble might even learn something from it.’

‘I have already explained that,’ snapped Michael, made irritable by the worry of keeping the students from each others’ throats that day. ‘Nominalism is too contentious a subject at the moment. Return next year, and I shall be happy to oblige you, but today we will hear about whether you think there is life on Mars.’

Heytesbury sighed. ‘As you wish, Brother. I warrant I shall clear this church within moments once I start to speak on such a tedious subject, but you shall have it, if that is what you want.’

‘It is,’ said Michael firmly. He glanced at the door as more people began to elbow their way into the church, headed by a flock of white-robed scholars, the size of which had every head turning in astonishment. ‘Look at that! It is Lincolne, with virtually every Carmelite friar in the county! Where did they all come from?’

‘He summoned them from their parishes,’ said Beadle Meadowman, breathless from his exertions. ‘His gatekeeper told me that he wants to prove the superiority of the realist argument by sheer dint of numbers.’

‘But the debate is not about realism,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘Damn your nephew, Matt! It is his fault that all these friars are here. He should never have suggested that Heytesbury speak here.’

‘There is Chancellor Tynkell,’ said Bartholomew, watching as the head of the University climbed unsteadily on to a wooden platform that had been erected in the middle of the nave. Immediately, there was a hush, as scholars waited to hear what he had to say. Heytesbury left Michael and went to stand next to him. From a distance the scholar looked small and unassuming, even in his handsome robes, and Bartholomew thought it was not surprising that the likes of Lincolne imagined they could best him in an argument. The Carmelite Prior would be in for a shock if he tried, Bartholomew thought, recalling the short work Heytesbury had made of such men in Oxford.

As the assembled masses in the church waited for the Chancellor to begin, Lincolne elbowed his way to the front with his gaggle of friars in tow, and Bartholomew saw the scholars behind him trying to see around the large expanse of his person and his peculiar turret of hair. On the other side of the church, his mortal enemy, Morden of the Dominicans, recently freed from the proctors’ cells, gave him an unpleasant glower. Morden had taken the precaution of bringing his own box to stand on, so that he would be able to look over the shoulders of the scholars in front. Meanwhile, the Franciscan Prior Pechem looked uneasily from one to the other, clearly anticipating trouble, while the student-friars from all Orders were alert and aggressive.

‘This Easter Sunday, we have gathered in St Mary’s Church to hear Master William Heytesbury of Merton College in Oxford,’ began Tynkell in a grand voice. ‘Although an esteemed proponent of nominalism, Heytesbury will speak on a different matter to us. The question we shall ponder is: Let us debate whether life exists in other universes.’

Bartholomew saw Heytesbury grimace, and one or two supporters of realism begin to grin at each other, gloating over the fact that the greatest nominalist in the country had been forbidden to speak his mind. Lincolne, looked as black as thunder.

‘Does he think God will strike him down?’ he boomed, the sudden loudness of his voice making several scholars jump in alarm. ‘Is he afraid to declare his heretical theories in a church?’

Heytesbury gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘I am willing to explain my theories anywhere, but I have not been invited to talk about them. I have been asked to speak about whether hairstyles like yours exist in parallel universes.’

The Dominicans began to cheer, drowning Chancellor Tynkell’s attempt to silence them and to bring the debate back to the subject in hand. The Carmelites objected to Heytesbury’s remark, and began to yell insults at him.

‘Perhaps it was not such a good idea to try to censor the debate,’ Bartholomew shouted to Michael, trying to make himself heard over the din. ‘You might cause more trouble by declining to discuss the problem than if it had been aired in the open.’

‘Our mistake was trying to hold the debate at all,’ yelled Michael. ‘We should have waited until matters calmed down.’

‘Look at Lincolne,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to the distinctive topknot making its way towards Heytesbury and Tynkell. ‘I have a feeling he intends more than a quiet chat about nominalist principles, Brother. Unless you want Heytesbury riding home with a blackened eye and tales of Cambridge’s violent debates, you should stop him.’

‘Come with me,’ instructed Michael. ‘I will never restrain Lincolne and fend off his students alone, and my beadles are struggling with the Dominicans.’

Bartholomew followed the monk as he elbowed his way through the surging mass. Any control Tynkell might have commanded had been lost, and the church was filled with ringing shouts and threats. Michael reached Lincolne and grabbed him by the arm.

‘Let me go!’ howled the Carmelite Prior furiously, trying to free himself. ‘I will not stand here and be forced to listen to the lies of that wicked man.’

‘Leave,’ suggested Michael breathlessly. ‘Then you will not have to.’

‘Our Prior will not be forced from his University church by a nominalist,’ declared Horneby hotly, trying to push his way past Bartholomew. ‘It is unthinkable!’

‘I will kill him where he stands,’ vowed Lincolne, white-faced with anger.

With a shock, Bartholomew saw that Lincolne had a knife in his hand, and the expression on his face indicated that he fully intended to use it. Even loyal Horneby’s jaw dropped in shock at the sight of his Prior armed and murderous in a church.

‘Wait!’ Horneby yelled, catching Lincolne’s sleeve and trying to pull him back. ‘This is no place for a fight, Father.’

‘It is the perfect place,’ snarled Lincolne, trying to free his arm from Horneby and the rest of him from Michael. It was easier said than done, and he started to lose his balance, threatening to drag his restrainers down with him.

Lincolne was not the only one who had decided it was a good time for a debate with fists rather than wits. Here and there, small skirmishes had broken out in the nave, and Bartholomew found himself hemmed in tightly by a throng of struggling, shoving scholars. Lincolne began to topple and snatched at Bartholomew to try to retain his balance. But Bartholomew was being pushed, too, and he grabbed at Lincolne at about the same time. They both fell, surrounded by churning boots and shoes that threatened to trample them.

A heavy foot planted on his hand convinced Bartholomew that the floor was no place to linger, but the press of bodies around him was such that he could not stand. Through the milling legs and swirling habits that surrounded him, he glimpsed the wooden platform that had been erected for Heytesbury to stand on. He made his way towards it on all fours.

When he arrived, bruised and rather breathless, he eased himself into its sanctuary only to discover that he was not the only one determined to use it as a refuge. Lincolne was already there, filling most of it with his bulk.

Michael saw that Bartholomew was still on the ground, and surged forward to try to pull him upright before he was injured. He snatched at a handful of the physician’s gown, and pulled as hard as he could. The rip was audible even over the frenzied yelling that filled the church, and the sudden removal of Bartholomew’s sleeve caused Michael to lose his balance. He staggered, crashing into Bartholomew, who was knocked forward into Lincolne. The physician reached out with both hands, instinctively grabbing at anything he could reach to save himself.

Unfortunately, his flailing hands encountered Lincolne’s topknot. He was horrified, embarrassed and slightly revolted when it came off. He glanced up. Without it, Lincolne was just an ordinary-looking man with a bald, yellowish forehead.

‘Give that back,’ snapped Lincolne, snatching it from the physician and replacing it. He glowered furiously at Bartholomew, who felt he had committed a most frightful indiscretion.

Mortified, the physician looked away, gazing at the hand that had deprived Lincolne of his hairpiece. He was confused to see that it was marked with a yellowish, sticky residue. He had seen a stain just like it on Walcote, and on Faricius before that. Bewildered, he stared at Lincolne.

‘I use gum mastic to keep my hair in place,’ explained Lincolne. ‘It is a better glue than anything else I have discovered, but it still has a habit of coming off in situations like this.’

‘“Situations like this”?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘You mean situations in which you are trying to kill someone?’ He flinched as a Dominican, punched hard by a Carmelite, reeled into the platform, and scrambled further inside.

‘It has come off in public twice before today,’ confided Lincolne. ‘Is it on straight? I do not like to be seen without it. It is nice, do you not agree?’

‘Is it real?’ asked Bartholomew, ghoulishly curious, despite the fact that he knew he should be asking Lincolne about his role in the deaths of Faricius and Walcote, not discussing fashions.

Lincolne nodded. ‘I had it made from my own hair, when I still had some.’

‘I have seen this glue before,’ said Bartholomew, glancing down at the vivid stain on his hand. ‘It was on the bodies of Faricius and Walcote.’

‘Yes,’ said Lincolne. ‘As I just said, it has a habit of coming off when I am trying to rid the world of people who should not be in it.’

‘You killed Faricius?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered.

Lincolne pursed his lips. ‘The boy was writing the most scurrilous nonsense I have ever read. When he went out during the riot to retrieve it, I saw too good an opportunity to miss.’

‘You stabbed him and left him to die?’ asked Bartholomew in a sickened whisper.

‘I thought I had killed him, and I was going to bury that vile essay with him. But the Dominican Precentor must have stolen it from his body. You understand, do you not? I could not have the Carmelites’ reputation sullied by the filth of nominalism.’

‘It is only a philosophical theory,’ said Bartholomew, his shocked voice only just audible over the deafening racket of the fight that surged above him. ‘An idea. It is nothing to kill for. But you urged Michael to investigate the Dominicans, while all the time the killer was you?’

‘Of course I encouraged him to look at the Black Friars,’ said Lincolne testily. ‘I did not want him discovering it was I who killed Faricius, or even worse, him learning about the existence of the essay.’

‘But why did you not just confiscate Faricius’s work?’ asked Bartholomew, ducking as someone in a grey habit tried to kick him.

‘I tried, but Faricius would not be silenced,’ replied Lincolne, striking out at the grey habit with his knife. There was an agonised howl and blood dribbled on to the creamy yellow tiles of the floor. ‘When I confronted him on Milne Street, he told me he intended to go to Oxford with Heytesbury, so that he could become a better nominalist than ever.’

‘And you killed Walcote, too?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought Timothy and Janius did that, but the gum mastic stain on Walcote’s hand indicates otherwise.’

‘He declined to hand over the essay. We offered him a chance to live, but he refused to take it. We hanged him, and Michael generously furthered our plan by appointing Timothy in his place.’

‘But why should that matter to you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you were only interested in retrieving the essay.’

‘Then you are wrong,’ said Lincolne. ‘I am concerned with wider issues, too, such as Michael’s cavorting with Oxford men and threatening the welfare of the entire University. I had to stop him, and Timothy and Janius were helping me.’

‘So Timothy was telling the truth after all,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He said someone else was in control, but we did not believe him, especially when Janius denied it. But I did not imagine it was you. To be honest, I suspected Heytesbury, given that he is always chewing gum mastic.’

Lincolne snarled his disgust. ‘I am a decent man, who is prepared to act to see our University saved from men like Michael and Walcote. But that evil nominalist chews gum mastic to hide the fact that he is a heavy drinker.’

‘But what were you doing there when Walcote, Timothy and Janius caught Kyrkeby outside your friary?’ asked Bartholomew, confused. ‘Did Timothy summon you?’

‘I was watching Kyrkeby,’ said Lincolne, stabbing at another pair of legs that came too close. He grimaced in annoyance when they moved before he could pierce them. ‘He was hovering outside our friary, as if he meant us harm. The other three frightened him to death and Walcote suggested we should hide him in the tunnel. It was time it was sealed anyway.’

‘But you said you did not know about it,’ said Bartholomew. Then he recalled what Lincolne had said the first time they had met, when the Carmelite had been ranting about the death of Faricius: that he had been at the friary since he was a child. And if that were the case, then he would certainly have known about the tunnel. Masters were never told, but Lincolne had been a student.

Lincolne saw the understanding in his face and sneered. ‘Did you imagine I was the only student ever to pass through the friary who was not party to the secret of the tunnel?’

‘Did you attend any of those meetings Walcote arranged at St Radegund’s Convent?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And did you know that Timothy and Janius were going to kill Michael?’

‘Of course I attended Walcote’s meetings,’ snapped Lincolne impatiently. ‘I am the leader of the Carmelites, and an important man. It was I who recommended that he hold them at St Radegund’s.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It is no place for decent men.’

‘Walcote did not invite decent men,’ said Lincolne reasonably. ‘He invited Pechem and Morden and Ralph. Holding the meetings there ensured they all came – they were all very sanctimonious about the venue, but I knew they would not attend if he held them anywhere less interesting. It was also the last place Michael would think to look for us.’

‘You are wrong about the others,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You are the only one to cavort regularly with prostitutes.’

‘Lies!’ spat Lincolne. ‘I do no such thing.’

‘You have a long-standing arrangement with Yolande de Blaston,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Matilde had told him. ‘None of the others break their vows with such regularity. But I want to know more about St Radegund’s. Did Eve Wasteneys, Mabel Martyn or Tysilia help you?’

‘Tysilia?’ exclaimed Lincolne in genuine horror. ‘The woman is a half-wit in a pretty body. She killed my poor novice – Brother Andrew – by breaking his impressionable heart. She is vermin, who will not survive the Death when God sends it a second time to rid the world of evil.’

‘What about the other nuns, then?’ pressed Bartholomew, wincing as Michael tumbled against the platform, threatening to demolish it with him and Lincolne still underneath. ‘How much did they know about what was discussed?’

Lincolne pulled his thoughts away from Tysilia. ‘Eve Wasteneys was too busy to be interested, while it was Dame Martyn’s task to arrange for services to be provided for those who required them. And I do not mean services of a religious nature, so do not tell me the likes of Pechem, Morden and Ralph are saints where women are concerned.’

‘Did you know that Timothy and Janius retrieved Faricius’s essay because they intended to have it published under their own names?’ asked Bartholomew, knowing that would shock the friar.

‘Liar!’ snapped Lincolne.

‘They stole it from Father Paul. Janius is in the proctors’ cells, and doubtless will confirm it when you join him there.’

‘Not me,’ said Lincolne, lunging at Bartholomew with the knife. ‘I am going to no such place.’

Bartholomew twisted to one side, and the gleaming blade made a long groove in one of St Mary’s beautiful decorated tiles. Lincolne stabbed again, and Bartholomew hurled himself against the Prior, aiming to crush the man against the side of the platform. Michael, however, intervened. Determined to haul the physician to his feet before he was trampled, he took a firm hold of Bartholomew’s arm and pulled with considerable force. Bartholomew found himself pinned against the platform himself, unable to move. With a grin of triumph as he saw his quarry rendered immobile, Lincolne began to move towards him.

Just when Bartholomew thought that Michael would unwittingly bring about his death, Lincolne’s determined advance was brought to a halt by a group of skirmishing Dominicans and Carmelites, who collided with the platform, causing it to topple. Bartholomew struggled free of Michael as it fell with an almighty crash that hurt his ears. Lincolne suddenly found himself deprived of the relative safety of his refuge, and Bartholomew took advantage of the Prior’s moment of confusion by diving at him. One of the brawling Dominicans blundered into the physician at exactly the wrong moment, so that he fell awkwardly, and managed to end up underneath Lincolne rather than on top, as he had intended.

There was a sudden shriek and a yell of ‘fire!’ The milling mass of bodies was still for an instant, and then there was a concerted dash for the door. Feet pounded and trampled as people rushed forward. Some tripped over the prostrate Lincolne, and Bartholomew’s attempts to struggle free and make his own way to the door were futile. He winced as someone kicked his leg in the frantic dash from the burning building, and then curled into a ball to protect his head to wait until the stampede was over. Fortunately, his position under Lincolne saved him from most of the bruising footsteps that pounded across the floor.

Finally, the church was empty. Bartholomew pushed Lincolne away from him and sat up to see the last of the scholars disappearing through the great west door. One or two were limping and others were being helped by their friends, but at least everyone was walking. Recalling the reason for the panic, the physician gazed around him wildly, but could see no flames. He could not even smell smoke.

‘Where is the fire?’ he demanded, scrambling to his feet.

‘There is no fire,’ said Michael. ‘That was someone’s idea of a practical joke. Still, at least it put an end to all that fighting.’

‘Everyone is going home peacefully,’ reported Beadle Meadowman, running breathlessly back into the church to Michael. ‘I thought they would continue to fight outside, but too many of them have bruises already, and they are dispersing quite quietly.’

‘Lincolne!’ exclaimed Michael, staring down at the Carmelite friar when he became aware that the man was lying unnaturally still amid a spreading stain of blood. Horneby was next to him, kneeling and muttering the words of the final absolution.

‘Prior Lincolne killed Faricius,’ said Horneby, gazing up at them with a face that was pale with shock. ‘I heard what he told you, Doctor. We thought the Dominicans killed Faricius, but all the time it was him. Our own Prior.’

‘What is this?’ asked Michael in confusion. ‘And what is wrong with Lincolne?’

‘He fell on his knife,’ said Horneby quietly. He fixed Bartholomew with a calm, steady gaze that was impossible to interpret. Had Horneby killed the Prior, to avenge the death of his friend? Or had the murderous Lincolne been pushed on to his own dagger when so many feet had thundered across him?

Bartholomew knelt next to Lincolne, and saw the knife protruding from his stomach. He stared at Horneby, noting his bloodstained hands, and wondered whether the fact that Lincolne had died in the same way as Faricius was significant. Horneby said nothing, but continued with his absolution. As he touched the body to anoint it, yet more blood darkened his fingers, and Bartholomew knew it would be impossible to tell whether Horneby had taken his own vengeance. Horneby knew it, too, and gave Bartholomew a small, bitter smile as he straightened the curious topknot that had provided Bartholomew with his final clue.

‘I told you I would clear the church within moments, if I spoke about life on other planets,’ said Heytesbury, coming to stand next to them. He was amused by the whole incident, and did not seem too concerned by the fact that a scholar lay dead at their feet. ‘I was right.’

‘It was you who shouted that there was a fire?’ asked Michael in sudden understanding.

Heytesbury grinned at him in a way that made it clear he had been the one responsible. ‘But, although I may have been correct about emptying the church, I was wrong about one thing, Brother.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Michael suspiciously.

‘I thought today would be a dull experience. It was not. You Cambridge men certainly know how to organise a memorable debate!’