An Order for Death

Chapter 4

WALCOTE’S BODY LAY IN THE CONVENTUAL CHURCH AT the Austin canons’ foundation at Barnwell. Barnwell was a tiny settlement outside Cambridge, comprising a few houses and the priory itself. Beyond it was another small hamlet called Stourbridge, famous for its annual fair and its leper hospital.

The priory was reached by a walk of about half a mile along a desolate path known as the Barnwell Causeway. Once the town had been left behind, and the handsome collection of buildings that belonged to the Benedictine nuns at St Radegund’s had been passed, Fen-edge vegetation took over. Shallow bogs lined the sides of the track, and stunted elder and aspen trees hunched over them, as if attempting to shrink away from the icy winds that often howled in from the flat expanses to the north and east. Reeds and rushes waved and hissed back and forth, and the grey sky that stretched above always seemed much larger in the Fens than it did elsewhere. As they walked, more briskly than usual because it was cold, ducks flapped in sudden agitation in the undergrowth, and then flew away with piercing cackles.

‘Damned birds!’ muttered Michael, clutching his chest. ‘No wonder people like to poach here. I would not mind taking an arrow to some of those things myself! That would teach them to startle an honest man.’

The Fens were known to be the haunt of outlaws, and Bartholomew kept a wary watch on the road that stretched ahead of them, as well as casting frequent glances behind. Since the plague had taken so many agricultural labourers, the price of flour had risen to the point where many people could not afford bread. Three well-dressed Benedictines and a physician with a heavy satchel over one shoulder would provide desperate people with a tempting target.

Michael seemed unconcerned by the prospect of attack, and was more interested in outlining the duties of Junior Proctor to Timothy. Timothy himself was more prudent, and carried a heavy staff that Bartholomew was sure was not a walking aid. Janius was also alert, and Bartholomew could see that he possessed the kind of wiry strength that was easily able to best larger men. While Michael continued to regale Timothy with details of his new obligations, Janius fell behind to walk with the physician.

‘I am still worried about Adam,’ he said, fiddling with the cover on his basket of food for the lepers. ‘He claims he feels better, and our prayers help, of course, but sometimes he seems so frail.’

‘He is old,’ said Bartholomew matter-of-factly. ‘I can ease his symptoms, but he will never be well again.’

Janius gave a startled laugh. ‘You do not mince your words, Matthew! I was expecting some comfort, not a bleak prediction. Have you no faith that God will work a cure if we pray hard enough?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew practically. ‘Adam is almost eighty years old, and the wetness in his lungs will become progressively worse, not better. Such ailments are common in men of his age, and there is only one way it will end.’

Janius shook his head and gave Bartholomew a pitying glance. ‘Yours must be a very sad existence if you place no hope in miracles.’

‘My experience tells me that miracles are rare. It is better to assume that they will not happen.’

‘You should pray with us at Ely Hall,’ said Janius, patting Bartholomew’s arm sympathetically. ‘You strike me as a man who needs to understand God.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew vaguely, determined not to engage in a theological debate with a man whose eyes were already gleaming with the fervour of one who senses a challenge worthy of his religious attentions. He knew from personal experience that it was never wise to discuss issues relating to the omnipotence of God with men who had the power to denounce unbelievers as heretics, and he hastily changed the subject before the discussion became dangerous. ‘Do you often deliver eggs to the leper colony?’

Janius seemed taken aback by the sudden change in topics. He tapped Bartholomew’s arm a little harder. ‘Remember my offer, Matthew. It may save your soul from the fires of Hell.’

Bartholomew was relieved when Janius made his farewells, and watched the pious monk walk briskly up the footpath to where the chapel of St Mary Magdalene dominated the huddle of hovels occupied by the lepers. The chapel was a sturdy building, pierced by narrow windows, almost as if its builders did not want the light to shine in on the people inside. The huts were flimsy wooden-framed affairs, with thatched roofs that allowed the smoke from a central hearth to seep out and the rain to seep in. Bartholomew had visited them on many occasions, usually to help Urban, the Austin canon who had dedicated his life to tending those people whom the rest of society had cast out. He saw Janius turn a corner, then ran to catch up with Timothy and Michael.

‘Janius has a good heart,’ said Timothy, who must have had half an ear on the conversation taking place behind him, as well as on Michael’s descriptions of his new duties. ‘His own faith is so strong that he longs for others to be similarly touched. I understand how he feels, although I am less eloquent about it.’

‘Good,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I already wear the cowl, so you have no need to preach to me.’

‘Just because you are a monk does not mean that your faith is not flawed,’ began Timothy immediately, his face serious and intense. ‘I have met many clerics who simply use their habits to advance their own interests here on Earth, with no thoughts of the hereafter.’

‘And doubtless you will meet many more,’ said Michael brusquely. Given what he had told Bartholomew about the reasons most friars came to Cambridge, the physician supposed that Timothy was likely to meet a lot of men who were more interested in the earthly than the spiritual aspects of their existence. ‘But we have arrived. Here is the priory.’

Barnwell Priory was a large institution, and the fact that it stood in the middle of nowhere meant that it had been able to expand as and when its priors had so dictated. Its rambling collection of buildings sprawled along the ridge of a low rise that overlooked the river. It was in a perfect location – close enough to the river for supplies and transport, but high enough to avoid all but the worst of the seasonal floods. A substantial wall and a series of wooden fences protected it from unwanted visitors, although beggars knocking at a small door near the kitchens were often provided with a loaf of bread or a few leftover vegetables.

The conventual church stood next to the road, attached to the chapter house by a cloister of stone. To one side was a two-storeyed house, which comprised the canons’ refectory on the ground floor and their sleeping quarters above. The Prior of Barnwell had his own lodgings in the form of a charming cottage with a red-tiled roof and ivy-clad walls. Smoke curled from its chimney, to be whisked away quickly by the wind. From the nearby kitchens came the sweet, warm scent of newly baked bread.

The canons were at prayer in their chapter house when Bartholomew, Michael and Timothy tapped on the gate and asked to see Walcote’s body. An Austin brother named Nicholas, whom Bartholomew had treated for chilblains all winter, escorted them to a small chantry chapel. He then returned to his duties, while the two canons who kept vigil on either side of Walcote’s coffin, climbed stiffly to their feet, and readily acquiesced to Michael’s request to spend time alone with his Junior Proctor.

The noose around Walcote’s neck had so distorted his features that Bartholomew barely recognised the serious man who had been Michael’s assistant for the past year. His face had darkened, and his eyes were half open and dull beneath swollen lids. A tongue poked between thickened lips, and a trail of dried saliva glistened on his chin. Michael declined to look at him, and retreated to the main body of the church where he pretended to be praying. Hastily following his example, and evidently relieved to be spared the unpleasant task of inspecting a corpse, Timothy went with him.

Suppressing his distaste at submitting to such indignities the body of a man he had known and liked in life, Bartholomew began his examination, using for light the two candles that had been set at the dead man’s head and feet. There was no question at all that Walcote had been strangled. The vivid abrasions around his neck attested to that. Bartholomew turned his attention to the hands, and saw that Michael had been right: more stark circles indicated that Walcote’s hands had been tied, and he had evidently struggled hard, because he had torn the skin in his attempts to free himself. His feet had been tied, too, perhaps to prevent him from kicking out at his killer or killers.

‘What can you tell me?’ called Michael from the shadows of the chancel. ‘Look at his fingernails. You always seem to be able to tell things from nails. And I want to know whether he was hit on the head and stunned. It would be a comfort to know that he was unaware of what happened to him.’

It was a comfort Bartholomew could not give, however, and it was apparent that Walcote had known exactly what someone intended to do to him, because he had struggled. The fact that he had been strangled by the noose, and that it had not broken his neck as was the case in many hangings, suggested it had not been an especially speedy end.

To humour Michael, Bartholomew inspected Walcote’s fingernails, but they told him little. They were broken, which implied that the Junior Proctor had started his bid for freedom before he had been trussed up like a Yuletide chicken. The only odd thing was that there was a sticky, pale yellow residue on one hand, just like the stain Bartholomew had seen on Faricius’s hand. He frowned, wondering what, if anything, it meant. He replaced the shroud, put the dead man’s hands back across his chest as he had found them, and left Walcote in peace. Michael and Timothy followed him out of the shadowy chapel, both clearly glad to be away from the unsettling presence of untimely death in a man they had known. Timothy heaved a shuddering sigh.

‘Nasty,’ he said unsteadily, although Bartholomew was not sure whether he meant the manner of Walcote’s death or the fact that he was now obliged to pay close attention to such matters.

Outside the church, Nicholas was waiting for them, clutching a bundle that he proffered to Michael. ‘These are Will’s clothes,’ he said shyly. ‘He was wearing a habit, a cloak and boots, all of which I removed when his body was brought here. I suppose we should distribute them to the poor, but it is hard to part with this last reminder of him. Will you do it?’

‘Keep them,’ said Michael, who like Bartholomew had noticed that Nicholas’s own robe was pitifully threadbare and that he wore sandals, despite the fact that there had been a frost the previous night. Bartholomew thought it was not surprising he had chilblains. ‘Will would have wanted them to be given to his friends.’

Nicholas swallowed hard. ‘We all liked Will, and were proud that an Austin was a proctor. We hoped he might even become Senior Proctor one day.’ He flushed suddenly, realising that for that to happen, Michael would have to be removed. ‘I am sorry, Brother. I did not mean…’

He trailed off miserably, and Michael patted his shoulder. ‘It is all right. I had hopes for Will’s future, too. He was a good man.’

‘Yes, he was,’ said Nicholas, tears filling his eyes. He gave them a surreptitious scrub with the back of his hand. ‘Laying out his body was the least I could do.’

‘You did that very carefully, but there is still a patch of something yellow on one hand,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What is it, do you know?’

Nicholas sniffed, hugging Walcote’s belongings to him. ‘I have no idea, but it would not wash off. The same substance was on his habit, too. Look.’

He freed a sleeve from the carefully packed bundle, revealing a patch of something that was sticky to the touch, slightly greasy and pale yellow.

‘How much of it was there?’ asked Bartholomew, touching it with his forefinger.

‘Just the patch on his hand and the little bit on his sleeve,’ said Nicholas. ‘It seems to repel water. I borrowed some soap from Prior Ralph, but it still would not come off.’

‘I need to see Ralph,’ said Michael. ‘I have a few questions to ask.’

Nicholas went to fetch him, leaving Bartholomew, Michael and Timothy standing in the cloister alone.

‘What is that stain exactly?’ asked Timothy, bending to touch the residue on the garment Nicholas had put carefully on a stone bench.

‘I have no idea,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘The only other time I have seen it was on Faricius.’

‘So is that why you imagine it to be significant?’ asked Timothy, straightening to look at him. He gave an apologetic grin. ‘Forgive my questions. I am just trying to learn as much from you as I can, so that I can fulfil my new duties. But if you do not know what this yellow slime is, then how can you be sure that Walcote and Faricius did not acquire it quite independently of each other?’

‘I cannot be sure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is a peculiar substance, and I think it odd that it should appear on two corpses that were killed within a couple of days of each other.’

‘But Faricius was stabbed during a riot in broad daylight, and Walcote was hanged in the shadows of dusk,’ pointed out Timothy. ‘I can see nothing that connects them.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is doubtless irrelevant.’

But something in the back of his mind suggested that it was not, and that it was an important clue in discovering who had killed a studious Carmelite friar and the University’s Junior Proctor.

Bartholomew shivered as he waited for Nicholas to fetch Prior Ralph de Norton. It seemed colder at Barnwell than it had been in Cambridge, and the wind sliced more keenly through his clothes. The cloisters, lovely though they were, comprised a lattice of carved stone that did little to impede the brisk breeze that rushed in from the north east. Bartholomew had heard that the wind that shrieked across the Fens with such violence every winter came from icy kingdoms above Norway and Sweden, where the land was perpetually frozen and the rays of the sun never reached.

‘I wondered when you would visit us, Brother,’ said a fat man with large lips and very protuberant eyes, who followed Nicholas through the cloister towards them. ‘I am so sorry about Will Walcote – sorry for the loss to my priory as well as the loss to you.’

Michael inclined his head. ‘I will find whoever did this, Prior Ralph. Believe me, I will.’

‘I do believe you,’ said Ralph softly. ‘I have heard that you and Doctor Bartholomew make a formidable team when it comes to solving murders.’

Bartholomew was not sure he liked being known as a solver of murders: he would have preferred his name to be associated with his work as a physician, which, after all, claimed most of his time. Still, he thought optimistically, perhaps the appointment of Timothy would mean he was obliged to help the monk less frequently in the future. Timothy seemed more proficient and eager than most of Michael’s junior proctors. When Ralph’s bulbous eyes shifted questioningly to Timothy, Michael introduced him as Walcote’s successor.

‘Good God!’ breathed Ralph, horrified. ‘You do not waste any time! Will is barely cold, and yet you have already appointed a Benedictine in his place. I was going to suggest you took another Austin canon – Nicholas, for example.’

Nicholas was mortified, and hung his head in embarrassment. But Timothy was unabashed, and rose to deal with the issue with cool dignity.

‘I appreciate that my appointment must seem sudden, but that happened only because the Chancellor is determined to catch the monster who killed Will. If you, or anyone else, is dissatisfied with my performance once the culprit is caught, I will willingly resign and someone else can take my place.’

Ralph relented in the face of Timothy’s disarming graciousness. ‘I am sure that will not be necessary. I am sorry, Brother; I was merely taken aback by the speed with which Will was replaced.’

‘Do you know anyone who had a grudge against Will?’ Michael asked, finally getting down to business. ‘I hate to ask such a thing, but we must leave no stone unturned, if we are to bring his killer to justice.’

Ralph appeared surprised by the question. ‘I thought you would be better placed to answer that. I imagine many people objected to the long arm of the law as personified by Will.’

‘I meant here, in the priory,’ said Michael. ‘Of course we will be reviewing his recent cases, but we need to know whether anyone had taken against him at his home.’

‘Of course not,’ said Ralph, a little offended. ‘He was not here much, despite the fact that he enjoyed our company. He always said that walking home to us after a day of chasing miscreants and malefactors around the town made him feel as though he were properly escaping from his duties for a few hours.’

‘That is how I feel about Michaelhouse,’ said Michael, blithely ignoring the fact that his beadles regularly visited him there, and that he was constantly at their beck and call. ‘So, there is no one at Barnwell who you think might have been jealous of his success or resentful of his connections with the University?’

‘No,’ replied Ralph smugly. ‘We Austins are not given to jealousy and feelings of resentment against our fellows.’

Michael gave a snort of laughter. ‘Do not take me for a fool! I am a cleric myself, do not forget. There will be resentment and jealousy wherever there are gatherings of people, and religious Orders are no different from secular folk.’

‘Well, I can assure you that no one here minded Will’s success,’ said Ralph coldly. ‘Indeed, it was generally assumed that it was good for us, because through him we had a certain degree of influence in the University.’

Bartholomew could see that Ralph genuinely believed what he was saying, and the more humble Nicholas had said much the same. It seemed Walcote was exactly as he had appeared – an affable, somewhat quiet man who had probably not enjoyed his duties, but who had continued to perform them to the best of his ability because his priory gained prestige from his appointment.

Bartholomew supposed that Michael would have to look into Walcote’s recent cases, and see whether any of the scholars he had caught or fined might have had a reason to kill him. His heart sank at the prospect. Students were a rebellious lot, and he imagined that Walcote would have dealt with a good many of them over the last year. Cambridge possessed a very transient population, and it was even possible that someone might have returned to the town specifically to exact revenge for some past incident, and had already left.

Ralph began to recite a long list of Walcote’s virtues, to which Michael listened patiently and politely. It was clear the Austin Prior had nothing more to say that could help them, and after a while Michael suggested, very gently, that they should be on their way to continue their investigation in the town. Ralph agreed, and left the shuffling Nicholas to see them out. Timothy walked with him, asking him for his own impressions of Walcote, while Michael nodded approvingly at his new deputy’s initiative.

As they headed towards the gate, a bell chimed to announce the midday meal. The canons began to converge on the refectory building, some spilling out from the chapter house and others coming from the gardens or the nearby fields. All walked briskly and purposefully, suggesting that breakfast had been a long time ago. A few chattered together as they walked, but most were silent, their dark robes swinging about their legs as they hurried towards the delicious buttery smell of baked parsnips and pea soup. Bartholomew spotted a familiar figure with tousled hair and a liberal collection of freckles.

‘Look!’ He grabbed Michael’s arm and pointed. ‘It is Simon Lynne. Remember him? He is one of the Carmelites we questioned about Faricius’s murder.’

‘So it is,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Only those are not a Carmelite’s robes he is wearing. That is the habit of an Austin canon.’

‘He cannot be both,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘What can he be thinking of?’

‘I do not know,’ said Michael, watching the youth disappearing inside the refectory. ‘But we shall find out.’

‘Now?’ asked Bartholomew, pausing and preparing to visit the refectory there and then.

‘In my own time, when I know exactly what questions to put to him. It seems I was right after all, Matt. There does seem to be a link between the murder of Faricius and the murder of Walcote.’

Michael stepped outside the gates of Barnwell Priory and gave a sigh. The wind had sharpened since they had been inside, and a blanket of thick grey clouds made midday feel like evening. It had started to rain, too, unpleasant little splatters that had the bite of ice in them and that stung uncovered hands and faces.

‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ he said irritably, hauling his cowl over his head and drawing his warm cloak tightly around his shoulders. ‘It is a long walk here, and I expected to gain more than you telling me that Walcote had been hanged – which I already knew – and that I must look outside Barnwell to uncover the identity of his killer.’

‘That yellow stain might be important,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It may have been left there by his killer, and could help us identify the culprit.’

‘Perhaps,’ mumbled Michael ungraciously. ‘Although we do not even know what it is, so I cannot see how it will help us to track down the murderer. If you said it was something used by tanners or by parchment makers or some other tradesman, then we might have been able to act on it. But all we know is that it is a yellowish sticky grease of unknown origin.’

‘The Franciscan friars know a lot about peculiar substances,’ suggested Timothy. ‘Their rat poison is famous from here to Peterborough, so perhaps one of them might be able to identify it.’

Michael rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I hope it was not a Franciscan who killed Walcote and Faricius. They are at loggerheads with the Austins at the moment, because of this damned philosophical debate, so I suppose it is possible. But the Franciscans will not take kindly to being accused of harbouring a killer.’

‘Then we shall have to be more circumspect,’ said Timothy earnestly. ‘Ely Hall has mice, so I shall visit the Franciscans on the pretext of asking for a solution. While I am there, I shall have a good look for that yellow stuff. If I see any, I shall report back to you, and we can then decide how to proceed.’

‘Good,’ said Michael, approvingly. ‘That may lead somewhere, and if it does not, we will have antagonised no one.’

‘And what about the presence of Simon Lynne here and at the Carmelite Friary?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘That will probably amount to nothing,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘I wanted to find real clues. I was hoping to discover who killed Walcote quickly – today.’

‘At least we have been thorough,’ said Timothy encouragingly. ‘We needed to inspect Walcote’s body and we needed to visit his priory, just to be certain we had overlooked nothing. Just because we learned little does not make it a waste of time.’

Michael looked as though he disagreed, but the priory door opened, and Nicholas sidled out, casting a quick and agitated glance behind him before he closed it. He was already wearing Walcote’s boots, although they were too small and meant that he walked with a peculiarly mincing gait.

‘I know something that may help you,’ he said in a whisper, even though it was unlikely that he could have been overheard through the thick gates. ‘I did not want to mention it at first, because I promised Will I would tell no one. But then I decided I should tell you anything that might prove relevant to his death, although you probably know what I am going to say anyway. But I thought I should mention it, just in case you did not.’

‘I want to know anything that could have a bearing, however remote, on Will’s murder,’ said Michael, intrigued by Nicholas’s rambling discourse.

‘I do not know whether it has a bearing,’ said Nicholas. ‘It involves certain women, but I am sure you know what I am talking about.’

‘Women?’ asked Michael, mystified. ‘With Will? I always understood his affections ran in other directions – in yours, to be precise.’

Nicholas lowered his eyes and gazed at the ground. ‘We did have a certain understanding,’ he said. ‘We have been close since he arrived at Barnwell ten years ago. But that was not what I meant. Will had dealings with the nuns at St Radegund’s convent. Did you know about that?’

‘What kind of dealings?’ demanded Michael, indicating that he did not. ‘They were certainly not romantic ones. He was too devoted to you to indulge in that sort of thing.’

More tears brimmed in Nicholas’s eyes. ‘Thank you for saying that. But I do not know the nature of his business with the nuns. He never told me. I assumed it was something he was doing in relation to his duties as Junior Proctor, which is why I thought you would know about them.’

‘Well, I did not,’ said Michael shortly. ‘What makes you think these “dealings” had anything to do with the proctors’ office?’

‘Everyone knows that the students tend to congregate near the convent from time to time,’ said Nicholas. ‘I suppose they find a gathering of ladies irresistible. I assumed his business was related to preventing that from happening.’

‘Did you ask him about it?’ said Michael.

Nicholas glanced at the fat monk with haunted eyes. ‘Of course I did. He merely treated me to that enigmatic smile of his and said it was better for me not to know too much about what transpired at the convent.’

‘What did he mean by “better”?’ pressed Michael. ‘Safer? Or was he suggesting that it was so secret that not even his closest friend could be told?’

‘I do not know,’ said Nicholas. ‘It had nothing to do with you, then? It was nothing you had asked him to do as Junior Proctor?’

‘No,’ replied Michael. He looked thoughtful, trying to guess what arrangement his Junior Proctor might have had with the nuns of St Radegund’s that was so secret he would not even tell his lover. ‘Thank you for telling us this, Nicholas. If everyone is as helpful, we might yet have this killer in front of the King’s justices.’

Leaving Nicholas to slip back into Barnwell Priory unnoticed, the monk turned on his heel and began to stride down the Causeway with Bartholomew and Timothy following. It was a miserable journey. The rain had turned to sleet and drove into their faces, and the wind sliced through Bartholomew’s cloak so that he wondered whether there was any point in wearing it at all. Even the uncharacteristically brisk pace set by Michael did not serve to warm him. The countryside was grey, dead and dismal, and there was not the merest trace of spring buds or leaves on the stunted trees.

Michael, however, seemed cheered by Nicholas’s intelligence, and walked purposefully, oblivious to the inclement weather that buffeted him. He declared that a visit to the good women of St Radegund’s Convent was in order, and instructed Timothy to begin his covert search for the yellow substance in the Franciscan Friary, while he and Bartholomew undertook the more pleasant task of asking the nuns about Walcote’s business with them. Obediently, Timothy hurried back to the town, while Bartholomew and Michael turned towards the convent.

The convent had suffered a serious fire in 1313, and everything had been rebuilt. The small community of Benedictine nuns now enjoyed a comfortable range of buildings that included a pleasant solar, a refectory with a substantial hearth so that they seldom ate in the cold, and a church that possessed some of the loveliest wood carvings Bartholomew had ever seen. All were linked by a cloister, which meant the nuns were not obliged to walk in the rain when they made their way to and from their offices.

Unfortunately, the reputation of St Radegund’s had suffered badly under the leadership of some of its prioresses. The one who had ruled during the Death had not been popular or pleasant, but she had at least maintained a degree of order over the women in her care. Her successors had not, and the convent had been visited by a number of bishops and other important Benedictines to investigate allegations of dishonesty and loose behaviour.

Personally, Bartholomew had little cause to deal with the nuns, and so had no idea whether the accusations were true or not, although his suspicions had been aroused when he had seen the state of Dame Martyn that morning. Michael, whose calling as a Benedictine meant that he was privy to information about the convent that was not widely available, cheerfully maintained that the allegations were entirely true. Bartholomew did not know whether to believe him or not, given that the monk was not averse to flagrant exaggeration and that the notion of a convent of willing ladies was something that appealed to his sense of humour.

Michael strode up a path that wound through an attractive grove of chestnut trees, and tapped on the gatehouse door. Bartholomew followed him slowly, the once familiar track bringing back uncomfortable memories. The last time he had visited St Radegund’s was during the plague, when he had been betrothed to a woman named Philippa Abigny. Philippa had been deposited in the convent for safe keeping by her parents, although Bartholomew had visited her regularly. Once the Death had moved on, leaving the survivors to deal with its ravages as well as they could, Philippa had decided not to take an impoverished physician as a husband after all, and had married a wealthy merchant instead.

Bartholomew wondered how different his life would have been had he taken a wife. He would have been forced to resign his Fellowship, since Fellows of the colleges were not permitted to marry, and there would have been no teaching and no students. But there would have been compensations, such as a family and a real home. A sudden vision of Philippa entered his mind – tall, fair and lovely – and he experienced a sharp pang of loneliness. His painful reminiscences were interrupted when a metal grille in the door clicked open in response to Michael’s knock, and a pair of dark eyes peered out at them.

‘Yes?’ asked the owner of the eyes expectantly. Bartholomew recognised her as the novice who had been so blunt about her Prioress’s condition earlier that morning; he also recalled that her name was Tysilia. ‘What can we do for you?’

Michael sniggered and waved his eyebrows at her. ‘Let us in and I will tell you.’

The grille snapped shut and Bartholomew shot the monk a withering look, seeing that Michael’s inappropriate flirting had lost them the opportunity to talk to the nuns about Walcote’s death. They were hardly likely to admit such a flagrant lecher into their midst. So Bartholomew was startled when the door was flung open, and Tysilia swung her arm in an expansive gesture to indicate that they were to enter.

‘Come in, then, good scholars, and tell us what you had in mind,’ she said, giving Michael an outrageous wink. ‘Do not keep us wondering.’

Michael shot through the door, leaving Bartholomew to follow more cautiously. ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps we should have Edith with us, or Matilde…’

‘Oh, yes, we should have brought Matilde,’ Michael whispered back facetiously. ‘It is always a good idea to bring a prostitute to a convent as an escort, Matt – although I confess that, in this case, I do not know who would be protecting whom.’

‘Well?’ asked Tysilia, hands on hips as she looked the two scholars up and down appraisingly, as a groom might survey a horse. She no longer wore the cloak that had covered her that morning, and Bartholomew was surprised to note that her black Benedictine habit was fashionably tight, cut rather low at the front, and sported a large jewelled cross that was a long way from the simple poverty envisioned and recommended by St Benedict. ‘What do you want?’

‘We have questions of a confidential nature that pertain to a delicate investigation I am conducting,’ said Michael pompously.

‘Eh?’ said Tysilia, a blank expression on her pretty features. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘We want to speak to the Prioress,’ translated Michael.

‘Oh! Why did you not say so? Come upstairs, then. I expect our Prioress will not mind a couple of guests. She likes surprises.’

‘Perhaps you should announce us first,’ suggested Bartholomew tactfully. ‘It is time for sext, and she may not want to be disturbed at her offices by unexpected visitors.’

Tysilia and Michael regarded Bartholomew as if he were insane.

‘Follow me, then,’ said Tysilia, after an awkward silence. ‘Everyone is in the day-room.’

‘I believe “solar” is the fashionable way to refer to that chamber these days,’ said Michael conversationally, as they walked with her through a narrow slype between the church and a parlour to reach the cloister. ‘I have not heard anyone referring to a “day-room” for years. Even my grandmother does not use such an antiquated term.’

‘I keep forgetting it,’ said Tysilia. She gave a weary sigh. ‘There is such a lot for a young woman to remember these days – like threading a needle with silk before starting the embroidery; not wiping my lips on the tablecloth at mealtimes if anyone else is watching; and going to church occasionally.’

‘It must be very taxing for you,’ said Michael sympathetically, his eyes fixed on her swaying hips as she preceded him through the cloister. Aware of his attention, she lifted her robe higher than was necessary to keep it from trailing in the puddles on the paving stones, revealing a pair of shapely white calves and some shoes that were ridiculously inadequate for anything other than lounging indoors.

‘I am Tysilia de Apsley,’ she said, glancing around to give Michael a smile that had the undeniable qualities of a leer. Her disconcerting behaviour confirmed the impression Bartholomew had that morning: that she was not clever, and that she was being trained to hide the fact by flaunting her good looks. She certainly knew how to charm Michael. ‘I expect you have heard of me.’

‘I hear a great many things,’ replied Michael ambiguously, stepping quickly around her to open a door before she reached it. She disappeared inside, and then gave a shriek of delighted indignation. Bartholomew glanced up just in time to see Michael returning his hands to their customary position inside their wide sleeves. ‘But just remind me in what context I might have heard a pretty name like Tysilia de Apsley.’

‘My uncle is the Bishop of Ely,’ she said, her voice echoing back down the stairs as she climbed them. ‘Thomas de Lisle.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘I would not have done that, had I known. Still, I think she enjoyed it.’

‘And what did you do exactly, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael chuckled softly. ‘Nothing I would recommend you try, now that we know who she is. I should have remembered she was here. My lord Bishop told me that he had placed his wanton niece at St Radegund’s out of harm’s way; I recall telling him it was a very good place for her.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at him. ‘Do you mean it is good because it is a convent and will cure her indecent behaviour, or because she will probably feel at home in an institution with a reputation like St Radegund’s?’

Michael’s smile was enigmatic. ‘What do you think?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is unwise to trust someone like her with gate duties. It seems to me that she will allow anyone inside as long as he is male.’

‘The Sacristan, Eve Wasteneys, is no fool,’ replied Michael ambiguously. ‘I expect she knows what she is doing, although I cannot say the same for that sot who is currently drinking her way through the convent’s once-impressive wine cellars.’

‘Do you mean Prioress Martyn?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling that she was happy to avail herself of other people’s wine cellars, too, if her collapse at the side of the road that morning had been anything to go by.

‘Have you met her?’ asked Michael. ‘I suppose you have been called to give her cures for over-indulgence, although the nuns usually try to conceal her excesses.’

‘You look familiar,’ said Tysilia, turning to Bartholomew with a slight frown marring her pretty features. ‘I think I have seen you before.’

‘This morning,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You were on your way home from the Panton manor, and your Prioress was taken ill.’

‘She was not ill; she was drunk,’ stated Tysilia uncompromisingly. ‘But, yes, I think I remember you. However, you wore a pretty ear-ring this morning. What happened to it?’

‘An ear-ring?’ queried Michael, startled.

‘That was my nephew,’ replied Bartholomew.

‘Your nephew is an ear-ring?’ asked Tysilia, frowning harder than ever.

‘Lord help us!’ breathed Michael, regarding her uncertainly. ‘No wonder the Bishop wanted her out of the way.’

‘I am sorry I am confused,’ said Tysilia, looking anything but contrite. ‘But all men look the same to me when they wear black. If they wear pretty colours, I recall them better, but there is nothing memorable about black.’

‘That must be awkward for you, considering men of your own Order wear black habits,’ said Michael dryly.

Tysilia giggled, then pushed open a door at the top of the stairs. ‘It has proved embarrassing on occasion. But here is our day-room – I mean our… what did you say it was called again, Brother? I have forgotten already.’

Bartholomew gazed at the scene in the solar, and fought hard not to gape in open-mouthed astonishment. A large fire burned in the hearth, and so that the room was warm to the point of being overheated. A number of nuns were there, some sitting at a large table and engaged in communal embroidery, while others lounged on cushion-covered benches or were comfortably settled in cosy window-seats. Two things caught Bartholomew’s eye immediately. The first was that not all the nuns were fully clothed, although they did not seem to be especially discomfited by the sudden presence of two men in their midst; the second was that they were not alone.

Simon Lynne was there. He sat near a window, his freckled face flushed and his mop of thick hair tousled and unruly. He regarded Bartholomew and Michael warily, then rose slowly to his feet. The physician was not surprised that the Carmelite student-friar was red and tangle-haired, given that he must have run very quickly from Barnwell Priory to reach the convent before Bartholomew and Michael. He wondered whether Lynne had overheard Nicholas telling Michael about Walcote’s mysterious visits to the convent, and had determined to ask his own questions before the Senior Proctor could – or perhaps he had even come to warn the nuns that Michael was heading their way.

‘You arrived here remarkably quickly, Lynne,’ said Michael coolly. ‘But it is good to see you, nevertheless. There are a few questions I would like to put to you.’

‘Another time,’ said Lynne rudely, reaching for his cloak. ‘I am late for my duties and must go.’ He gave a brief nod to the nuns, who watched the exchange with amused detachment, and headed for the door. He was stopped dead in his tracks by a hand that was as expert at grabbing recalcitrant students as it was at making passes at Bishops’ nieces.

‘Then you can tell your Prior that you have been with me,’ said the monk. ‘What were you doing at Barnwell a few moments ago?’

‘You are mistaken, Brother. I have not been at Barnwell,’ replied Lynne hesitantly. ‘And I do not have time to discuss it with you. I am late.’

‘You can discuss it here or in my cells,’ said Michael sharply, and the icy gleam in his eye made it clear that he was not bluffing. ‘It is your choice, Master Lynne.’

‘Really, Brother,’ came a slightly slurred voice from one of the couches near the fire. ‘Can a lad not even visit his aunt without being questioned by the Senior Proctor these days?’

‘Not when that lad knows something that may be of relevance to a murder enquiry, Dame Martyn,’ said Michael, not relinquishing his grip on Lynne. ‘And you have never mentioned a nephew before. Is it true? Or is it a convenient lie told for this little tyke’s benefit?’

‘Of course it is true,’ said Dame Martyn, not sounding particularly offended that Michael had effectively accused her of being a liar. ‘And do call me Mabel. You know I am not a woman for unnecessary formality.’

‘Are you feeling better?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that she did not look it. Her heavy face was unnaturally ruddy, and there was a bleariness about her eyes that spoke of poor health.

‘Better than what?’ she asked blankly.

‘The doctor stopped to help us this morning when you were taken ill,’ said the Sacristan, Eve Wasteneys, tactfully. Although almost all the other dozen or so nuns in the solar had followed Dame Martyn’s example of shedding unwanted clothes, Eve remained fully dressed, with a starched wimple cutting uncomfortably into her strong chin.

‘When you were drunk,’ supplied Tysilia, less tactfully. Dame Martyn shot the younger woman an unpleasant look. ‘Go back to your mending, Tysilia. And this time, remember that the large hole at the top of a glove is to allow the hand to go in. You do not sew it up.’

‘I will remember,’ said Tysilia brightly, making a show of sitting on a stool and arranging her habit so that it revealed a good part of her long slim legs. She picked up the glove and immediately began to hem across the top with large, uneven stitches. Bartholomew watched her uncertainly, wondering if her action was a deliberate rebellion against the Prioress’s authority, or whether Tysilia was so slow-minded that she did not realise what she was doing.

Dame Martyn smiled weakly at Bartholomew. ‘So, it was you who came to my assistance this morning. I am grateful to you – for your discretion as well as for the medicine you gave me.’

‘The cloves,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Cloves? For being in her cups?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘Perhaps your nephew Richard is right about physicians being charlatans after all.’

Dame Martyn ignored him. ‘Unfortunately, we are poor, and I am unable to pay you for your services. I assume that is why you are here? But perhaps we can come to some arrangement.’

‘What kind of arrangement?’ asked Michael, before Bartholomew could tell her that payment was not required.

Dame Martyn gave a leering smile that rendered her wine-ravaged features more debauched than ever. ‘Well, I could–’

‘We are excellent needlewomen,’ said Dame Wasteneys hastily to Bartholomew. The Prioress seemed startled by the interruption, while Michael raised his eyebrows, royally entertained by the whole conversation. ‘We will mend that tear in your cloak. Perhaps that will repay you for your kindness.’

‘I will do it,’ offered Tysilia.

‘Not if he ever wants to wear it again,’ said Michael. ‘Look what she is doing to that glove.’

With a tut of annoyance, Eve Wasteneys snatched the glove away from Tysilia, and handed her a discarded offcut of material instead. ‘Sew that,’ she instructed. Tysilia’s sulky pout vanished, and she began to adorn the hapless patch with her large, ugly stitches without seeming to understand that it was a pointless exercise. Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a bemused glance. Was Tysilia’s behaviour an elaborate performance for their benefit?

‘Will you accept our offer of darning, Doctor?’ asked Eve. ‘Or would you rather have a cabbage from the gardens?’

‘I do not like cabbage,’ said Michael, as though the offer was being made to him. ‘But we have not come to haggle over greenery. We are here on official business.’

Dame Martyn reached out a plump hand and filled one of the largest wine goblets Bartholomew had ever seen, the contents of which she then drank so fast that Bartholomew was certain they did not touch the sides of her throat. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘What sort of business?’

Michael looked significantly at Lynne and then back to Dame Martyn. ‘Since I have not had occasion to visit you for several weeks, I assumed you had taken my Bishop’s advice, and concentrated on your religious vocations rather than your more secular pastimes. But now I find you entertaining a student.’

‘He is my nephew,’ said Dame Martyn with a weary sigh, feigning boredom with the conversation. ‘My sister’s boy.’

‘If you want to question Master Lynne, perhaps you could do so outside,’ suggested Eve, apparently deciding that it would be better for all concerned if the monk and his friend went away, leaving the nuns of St Radegund’s to their own debauched devices. ‘Take him back to Cambridge with you.’

‘But it is so much more pleasant here,’ said Michael immediately, settling himself on a bench. He addressed the sullen student. ‘Now, Lynne, why are you here? Did you run all the way from Barnwell?’

‘I told you, I have not been to Barnwell,’ said Lynne. His uneasy gaze shifted to Dame Martyn. ‘I am here visiting my aunt.’

‘Do not lie to me,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I saw you at Barnwell Priory with my own eyes. You are a Carmelite; you should not have been at a convent for Austin canons. You know very well that the properties of rival Orders are out of bounds for student-friars.’

‘It must have been my brother you saw,’ said Lynne challengingly. ‘People are always confusing us. Is that not true, Aunt Mabel?’

‘Eh?’ said Dame Martyn, caught in the act of taking another substantial draught from her jug-sized cup. ‘Oh, yes. Peas in a pod, Brother.’

‘I see,’ said Michael flatly. He leaned back against the wall and treated the student to a long, cool stare. ‘Be off with you, then. I shall have words with your Prior about your insolence, and then you will learn that it is not wise to play games with the Senior Proctor.’

Lynne needed no second bidding to take his leave. He shot down the stairs, and they heard his feet clattering on the cobbles of the courtyard as he ran towards the gate.

‘You did not have to be so hard on the boy,’ said Dame Martyn, bringing her red-rimmed eyes to bear on Michael. ‘He was telling you the truth.’

‘I have warned you about this kind of thing before,’ said Michael sternly. ‘Believe me, Dame Martyn, you do not want our undergraduates to consider your convent to be a place that always gives them a warm welcome. Even your energetic ladies would find it too much.’

She sighed tiredly. ‘You seem determined to disbelieve me, Brother. I assure you, we were doing nothing untoward. Look at us. We are scarcely dressed for receiving guests.’

‘Some of you are scarcely dressed at all,’ remarked Michael, casting an assessing eye around the gathering. ‘And why are you all in here anyway? You should be celebrating sext.’

‘The church is too cold,’ said Dame Martyn in a voice that had a distinct whine to it. ‘I do not want my poor ladies made ill by standing in a frigid church for hours on end.’

‘So much for a life of religious contemplation,’ muttered Michael. Bartholomew sensed that even he was a little taken aback by Dame Martyn’s irresponsible attitude towards the offices she was supposed to oversee.

‘During Lent, we have a longer terce than usual,’ said Eve Wasteneys hastily, seeking to minimise the damage her superior was causing with her careless replies. ‘And then we begin nones early, so missing sext is not as serious as you seem to think. But why did you really come, Brother? Was it only to criticise us for changing our offices?’

‘I have a more pressing matter than that,’ said Michael, considering his own investigation more important than the prayers the nuns had taken vows to undertake. ‘Perhaps we can discuss it privately?’

‘In my parlour, you mean,’ said Dame Martyn with the kind of grin that suggested Michael had discussed ‘pressing matters’ in the privacy of her parlour before. Bartholomew decided that he really did not want to know any more about it.

‘Your parlour will do nicely,’ said Michael. ‘Lead the way, Dame Martyn.’

‘Mabel,’ corrected the Prioress.

Dame Martyn’s parlour was an airy room on the upper floor of the gatehouse. The shutters were open, and daylight streamed in through the glassless windows. A breeze rustled the parchments that lay on a table, which were prevented from blowing away by a selection of heavy metal ornaments. Unlike the solar, there was no fire, and although the room was light, it was very cold. It was very much like Bartholomew’s own room at Michaelhouse, and he did not blame the Prioress for preferring the debauched cosiness of the solar.

‘The Bishop of Ely granted Tysilia the right to gather firewood from the land he owns to the south,’ explained Eve Wasteneys, who had followed them from the solar, doubtless unwilling to entrust the convent’s reputation to her Prioress. ‘But the grant is for wood for her personal use only, and it does not allow us to heat the entire priory. So, while we have plenty of warmth in the solar and the dormitory, the rest of the place is freezing.’

Michael frowned in puzzlement. ‘You are being very scrupulous about this. Why not take what you like? I doubt the Bishop would find out if you did it discreetly.’

Eve gave a weary smile. ‘You have met Tysilia, Brother. She is pretty, but somewhat short on wits. When de Lisle last visited us, Tysilia mentioned how pleasant it was to have a roaring fire in every room, and he guessed they were fuelled by his wood. He was furious, and threatened to take her from us if we abused her privileges again.’

‘So, because we cannot trust that silly little fool, we are obliged to be honest,’ said Dame Martyn, her disapproving voice indicating that she found such a position objectionable.

‘Would it be such a bad thing if Tysilia were removed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I cannot see that you would miss her incisive wit and lively conversation of an evening.’

Eve smiled. ‘We would not, although her lack of intelligence does provide us with a certain degree of entertainment. But it is not her we will miss: it is the money the Bishop pays us to look after her. Despite what you may think, St Radegund’s is poor, and we need her fees.’

Bartholomew recalled that Dame Martyn’s predecessor had also been desperate for the money paid by boarders’ wealthy parents. His fiancée Philippa had been considered a source of valuable income for the convent, and the then Prioress had watched over her like a hawk. Because Philippa’s marriage would mean the end of the payments, the Prioress had gone to some lengths to keep her and Bartholomew apart.

‘The Bishop will remove Tysilia anyway, if he thinks you are entertaining scholars in an improper manner,’ warned Michael sternly.

Eve raised her eyebrows, and a smile of genuine amusement played about her lips. ‘I had credited you with more insight, Brother. The Bishop knows exactly to what depths we are sometimes forced to plummet to make ends meet, and believe me, Tysilia was no innocent when he brought her here. She was with child.’

‘Was?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Then where is it?’

‘It was born before its time and died,’ replied Dame Martyn. ‘We sent her back to Ely after she had recovered, only to have her foisted on us a second time for the same reason within a few months. She had already forgotten what we had taught her about how to avoid becoming pregnant.’

‘We have tried all manner of diversions to distract her from men,’ continued Eve, sounding exasperated. ‘Only last week I took her with me to Bedford. I thought the journey might keep her out of mischief.’

‘And I assume, from the expression on your face, that it did not,’ said Michael.

Eve shook her head. ‘She was the model of virtue on the outward journey, but there was a young man in our party on the way home, and I was hard pressed to conceal her indiscretions from our travelling companions. I suppose she just likes the company of men.’

‘Have you considered giving her a task other than that of gatekeeper?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Only I would not be so sure that she will allow the right people inside.’

‘We are not too fussy about that,’ mumbled Dame Martyn, settling herself in a cushioned chair with her monstrous cup in one fat-fingered hand.

‘What other task did you have in mind?’ asked Eve of Bartholomew, giving her Prioress a sharp glance to warn her against making flippant remarks. ‘Work in the kitchen, where there are knives to injure herself on? In the gardens, where there are sharp tools? In the chapel, where sacred vessels need to be treated with respect and care?’

‘Surely she cannot be that bad,’ said Bartholomew.

‘She is something of a liability, actually,’ said Eve. ‘And not only is she difficult to control, but she is a thief.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Michael immediately. ‘Have items gone missing?’

Dame Martyn scowled at her Sacristan. ‘You should not have mentioned that, Eve. It is a convent matter and none of Brother Michael’s business.’

‘It may be my business if I learn that her stealing is related to the death of Walcote,’ warned Michael. ‘So I suggest you be sensible about this and answer my questions honestly. Now, how do you know Tysilia is a thief?’

‘The stealing has nothing to do with Walcote,’ snapped Dame Martyn, finally nettled out of her half-drunken insouciance. ‘She is a stupid girl who cannot resist anything that glitters. She seldom removes anything of worth.’

‘That is not true,’ contradicted Eve. ‘She has a penchant for gold, and sometimes she takes items that are extremely valuable and that we cannot afford to lose. But Dame Martyn is right about her stupidity: Tysilia has not yet learned that in order to be a successful thief, it is necessary to steal when there are no witnesses and that you should not hide the proceeds of your crime in your own bed-chest.’

‘Why not confront her about this?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Tell her not to do it any more.’

‘We have tried,’ said Eve. ‘But she simply denies everything. When we point out that she was seen, or that the evidence of her guilt is concealed among her belongings, she merely claims we are mistaken.’

‘So, with her stealing and her promiscuity, she is not an easy charge,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to feel sorry for the nuns.

‘She is not,’ agreed Eve fervently. ‘If I were a more cynical person, I would wonder whether the Bishop had given us his niece just so that he will have an excuse to suppress us at some point in the future.’

‘Are you suggesting that my Bishop would deliberately foist a wanton woman on you, so that he could then accuse you of unseemly behaviour?’ asked Michael, sounding shocked. Bartholomew thought that the wily Thomas de Lisle could well have formulated exactly such a plan, and imagined that Michael knew so, too.

‘We do not mind licentious behaviour as such,’ said Dame Martyn, treating Michael to a conspiratorial smile. ‘We just prefer it to be conducted with sensitivity and tact.’

Warning bells began to jangle in Bartholomew’s mind. Was Tysilia really just an empty-headed flirt, whom the Bishop had sent to destroy the reputation of a convent already in trouble over its secular activities? Or was she very intelligent, and merely pretending to be stupid for reasons of her own? Perhaps it was Tysilia with whom Walcote had had his secret business. Bartholomew wondered whether the Bishop might have charged her with some task, using a member of his family to act as his agent, much as he used Michael. He decided it was a distinct possibility, and determined to watch Tysilia very closely.

‘The Bishop is behind with his payments,’ said Eve to Michael. ‘He now owes us for three months and five days of Tysilia’s company. Would you mention it, if you happen to meet him?’

‘No,’ said Michael, wisely determined to stay well away from the dangerous business of informing a Bishop that he was in debt. ‘But I am not surprised. De Lisle is not a wealthy man.’

‘He is wealthy enough when it comes to his own comforts,’ remarked Eve, a little bitterly.

‘We should address the real purpose of my visit,’ said Michael, abruptly changing the subject from de Lisle’s dubious finances. ‘Time is passing, and I do not want Walcote’s killer to enjoy a moment more freedom than necessary.’

‘Why do you think we can tell you anything about Will Walcote’s murder?’ asked Dame Martyn, sounding a little startled. ‘We barely knew the man.’

‘He visited you here on a regular basis,’ stated Michael, although Nicholas had made no such claim. ‘I want to know why.’

‘You would ask me to reveal the personal secrets of a man who is now dead?’ asked Dame Martyn, her redrimmed eyes wide in feigned shock. ‘That would not be a kind thing to do.’

‘Do not lie to me,’ snapped Michael. ‘We both know perfectly well that he did not come here to avail himself of the services that your nuns like to offer. He was not that kind of man.’

‘No,’ said Eve, suddenly bitter. ‘None of them ever are. But that does not stop them from coming to us and taking advantage of our poverty to snatch what they want. And then they return to their wives and their children, and pretend that they are good and honourable – not “that kind of man”, as you put it.’

‘That is not what I meant at all,’ said Michael. ‘Walcote was engaged in a relationship with one of his brethren, and was not interested in women. I know he did not come to you with the intention of romping in your dormitories.’

Dame Martyn regarded him craftily. ‘Then I can tell you nothing more. I am under the sacred seal of confession.’

‘Do not be ridiculous!’ Michael exploded. ‘Are you claiming that you were Walcote’s confessor? I have never heard anything more outrageous in my life! Now, what was his business here, Dame Martyn? You will tell me, or I shall make a personal recommendation to the Bishop that he removes his niece from you with immediate effect.’

Dame Martyn hastened to make amends. She evidently knew Michael well enough to guess that he would do what he threatened. ‘Actually, we have no idea what Walcote did here. And that is the truth.’

‘I see,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Shall I station my beadles here, then, to question anyone who comes or leaves? That would certainly deter visitors. Your happily married men will not like revealing the nature of their business here to interested beadles.’

‘You are a hard man, Brother,’ said Eve, when Dame Martyn seemed at a loss for words. ‘But the reason we cannot tell you what Walcote did is because we really do not know. As I mentioned earlier, times are hard, and we are obliged to raise funds in any way we can. One method is to rent this room for meetings that people would rather did not take place in the town.’

‘Do not tell him!’ cried Dame Martyn in horror. ‘The reason people come here is because they know they can rely on our discretion. Without that, we have nothing.’

‘Are you telling me that your convent is used as a venue for criminals?’ asked Michael quickly, as he saw Eve hesitate. ‘Men gather here to plan crimes and other evil deeds?’

‘We do not know what they plan,’ said Eve with blunt honesty. ‘All we do is make this parlour available to anyone who pays us four groats – no questions asked.’

‘And Walcote hired this room from you?’ asked Michael.

Eve nodded, while the Prioress looked disgusted at what her Sacristan had revealed.

‘How often? Once a week? More? Less?’

Eve Wasteneys regarded Michael for a moment, and then shrugged, looking at her Prioress as she did so. ‘Walcote is dead, Reverend Mother. He will not be paying us for any more meetings, and so we have nothing to lose by being honest with Brother Michael.’

‘But one of the others might pay us instead,’ said Dame Martyn plaintively. ‘There is no reason these gatherings should stop, just because one of their number is dead.’

‘They were Walcote’s meetings,’ said Eve. ‘He paid us and he organised them. That source of income is finished, and it is in our interests to co-operate with the proctors now. We do not want his beadles stationed at our gates, and we cannot afford to lose Tysilia – assuming the Bishop pays us eventually, that is. We have no choice but to tell Brother Michael what he wants to know.’

‘How often were these meetings?’ repeated Michael, breaking into their conversation.

‘Irregularly,’ replied Eve, while Dame Martyn shook her head angrily and turned her attention to the dregs at the bottom of her cup.

‘But how frequently?’ pressed Michael. ‘What were the intervals between meetings – days or weeks? And how many times did they occur?’

‘He hired the room perhaps eight or nine times,’ replied Eve, frowning as she tried to remember. ‘The first two or three meetings were last November or December – around the time the Master of Michaelhouse was murdered, if I recall correctly.’

‘You do not recall correctly,’ said Michael immediately. ‘When I was conducting that particular investigation, Walcote was in Ely. I remember quite distinctly, because there was a spate of crimes at that time, and I could have done with his help. He only arrived back in Cambridge the day Runham was buried and his cousin’s effigy was smashed in the Market Square.’

That particular incident was vividly etched in Bartholomew’s mind. ‘He was one of the throng who managed to grab a handful of the coins that were hidden inside Wilson’s effigy, and that spilled out when the thing broke.’

‘She said around that time,’ said Dame Martyn, showing a remarkable clarity of mind for someone who was drunk. ‘She did not say exactly at that time.’

‘I know I am right,’ said Eve. ‘I was also one of the fortunate people who managed to seize a couple of gold coins. We used them to repair the leaking roof in this room. Walcote commented on it when he next came, which was after Christmas.’

‘So, the roof leaked the first time Walcote was here, but it was repaired by the time he next visited,’ said Michael. ‘So, his first meeting may have been before Master Runham died.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Eve. ‘We did not acquire the money and have the roof mended the next day. It took some time to reach an acceptable arrangement with a thatcher, and so Walcote’s first set of meetings could have occurred just before or after the effigy incident.’

‘But suffice to say he had two or three meetings in November or December and one after Christmas,’ said Dame Martyn, raising one hand to her lips to disguise a wine-perfumed belch. ‘I remember the Christmas meeting, because we spent the four groats he gave us on wine to celebrate Yuletide.’

‘I bet you did,’ muttered Michael, regarding the nun and her cup with rank disapproval.

‘And you do not keep records?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully. ‘You do not write that kind of income in your accounts?’

Eve regarded him with weary amusement. ‘Brother Michael is probably right: the people who hire our room do not do so for legal purposes. Since we do not want to be accused of complicity in any crimes they commit, of course we do not keep records of when these meetings took place.’

‘Three meetings in November or December and one at Christmas is four,’ said Michael. ‘You said there were eight or nine. When were the others?’

‘Recently,’ said Eve. ‘They were not on any particular day, and they were all late at night.’

‘And who did Walcote meet?’ pressed Michael. ‘Were they local men or strangers? Did you recognise any of them?’

‘No,’ said Dame Martyn immediately. Michael raised his eyebrows.

‘Once I thought I glimpsed William de Lincolne, the Carmelite Prior,’ said Eve, who, unlike the Prioress, saw that it was unwise to play games with Michael.

‘Lincolne,’ said Michael casting a significant glance at Bartholomew. ‘I knew there was something odd about him. Who else?’

‘Possibly William Pechem, the warden of the Franciscans,’ said Eve, ignoring Dame Martyn’s angry signals to say nothing more.

‘A Carmelite and a Franciscan?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘They always give the impression that they dislike each other, and that they would never meet on friendly terms.’

‘I do not know whether their meetings were friendly or not,’ said Eve. ‘And I cannot tell you whether they were both present at the same meetings.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael.

Eve sighed impatiently. ‘Exactly what I say, Brother. I think I saw Pechem, and I think I saw Lincolne, but I do not remember whether I saw them both on the same night. I cannot tell you whether Walcote’s meetings were always with the same people.’

‘That is interesting,’ said Michael.

Eve went on. ‘If you ask me to swear that it was definitely these men I saw I cannot do it – not because I mean to be unhelpful, but because I am simply not sure. As I said, it was dark.’

‘I saw no one,’ slurred Dame Martyn. She slipped suddenly to one side, so that she sat at an odd angle in her chair.

‘That I can believe,’ said Michael regarding her in disdain. He turned to Eve. ‘Who else?’

‘One other,’ said Eve nervously. ‘Although I do not know whether I should mention it.’

‘You should,’ declared Michael. ‘Who was it?’

‘Master Kenyngham of Michaelhouse.’ She watched Michael’s jaw drop in patent disbelief. ‘See? I knew I should not tell you.’