An Order for Death

Chapter 5

^‘I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING MORE TO FARICIUS’S murder than a simple stabbing,’ said Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked the short distance from St Radegund’s Convent back to the town.

The day had grown even darker since they had been in the convent, and black clouds slouched above, moving quickly in the rising wind. Rain fell in a persistent, heavy drizzle that quickly soaked through Bartholomew’s cloak and boots. He was shivering by the time they reached the King’s Ditch, and longed to return to the comparative comfort of Michaelhouse, even if it were only to a room that was so damp that the walls were stained green with mould.

‘I said those Carmelites were hiding something,’ Michael went on, warm and snug inside his own oiled cloak and expensive boots. ‘Now I learn that the leader of the Carmelites and the leader of the Franciscans – sworn enemies – were having clandestine meetings with my Junior Proctor.’

‘Eve Wasteneys said she was not sure whether the two were at the same gatherings,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘But she did not say they were not,’ said Michael.

‘Do you believe her?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘She and Dame Martyn have no reason to be truthful with you. You threatened them, and they have good cause to dislike you.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Dame Martyn might try to fool me, but Eve is a practical woman who knows that lying to the Senior Proctor is not a clever thing to do. I believe what she said. Also, the fact that she was a little vague about some of the details gives her story a ring of authenticity, as far as I am concerned.’

‘I wonder what Walcote could have been discussing with them,’ mused Bartholomew, trying to imagine the kind of business that would bring the leader of the Franciscans, the fanatical Prior Lincolne and the gentle, unworldly Kenyngham together in the depths of the night at a place like St Radegund’s Convent. ‘Perhaps he was trying to resolve the conflict between the Orders.’

‘No,’ said Michael, after a moment of thought. ‘Eve said the first meeting was in November or December, and there was no trouble to speak of between the Orders at that point. It has only come to a head during the last few weeks – since the beginning of Lent.’

‘But that is when Eve claimed there were several more meetings,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael rubbed his hands together in sudden enthusiasm. ‘This is more like it, Matt! I thought at first that Walcote’s death was a simple case of some embittered student striking a blow at the University’s authority. Now I discover that he was organising secret meetings, and that he had been doing so for months.’

Bartholomew regarded him doubtfully. ‘Why should that make you feel better about his murder? And you do, Brother; you are looking pleased with yourself.’

‘Because this is the kind of mystery that I am good at solving. I possess a cunning mind, and am far better at resolving complex plots than I am at uncovering random acts of violence. We will get to the bottom of this, and we will see Walcote’s death avenged. Now I know that a plot involving the University lies at the heart of it, I am more hopeful of success.’

‘Well, I am not,’ said Bartholomew gloomily. ‘The webs of deceit and untruths spread by scholars are often extremely difficult to unravel. We might still be looking into this at Christmas.’

‘Nonsense, Matt,’ said Michael confidently. ‘We will have this solved by Easter Sunday.’

‘In five days?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly. ‘I do not think so!’

‘We will. I wager you a fine dinner – with as much wine as you can drink – at the Brazen George that by Easter Sunday we shall have this resolved. Do you accept?’

‘Murder is hardly a matter for betting,’ said Bartholomew primly. ‘You are wrong, anyway. It will be impossible to solve this muddle in five days.’

Michael slapped him on the shoulders. ‘You will see. But one of the first things we shall do is visit the Carmelite Friary. I want to inspect Faricius’s belongings, to see if there is something to indicate that he was not the hard-working, scholarly man everyone seemed to admire. And then I shall ask Lincolne what he was doing with my Junior Proctor at St Radegund’s Convent.’

‘What if he denies it? Eve Wasteneys said she could not be certain.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘You are right. Perhaps a full-frontal assault on the man would not be wise, given that we do not have a witness who is prepared to be unequivocal. It may warn him to be on the alert, or he may tell his coconspirators. I shall have to be a little more circumspect.’

As they entered the town through the Barnwell Gate and started to walk down the High Street towards the Carmelite Friary, they met Brother Timothy, who had completed his business with the Franciscans. His covert search for the curious yellow substance that Bartholomew had seen on Faricius and Walcote had been unsuccessful, although he carried a bag of ominous-looking black powder that he was assured would rid the Benedictines of their mice.

‘Nothing?’ asked Michael, disappointed.

The Benedictine shook his head. ‘I had my fingers in all manner of jars and bottles, so that even the herbalist, who loves to talk about his potions and concoctions, was beginning to grow suspicious. I pretended that my spare habit had a yellow stain that I was keen to remove, but I am sure he genuinely did not know the nature of the substance we saw on Walcote.’

‘Did he suggest anyone else who might?’ asked Michael.

Timothy scratched his head. ‘I did not want to press him too hard, because Franciscans are intensely loyal to each other. If the herbalist thought we believed one of his brethren to be involved in a crime, he would close ranks with his colleagues, and we would never be allowed inside the gates again.’

‘Never mind,’ said Michael, not sounding surprised that the yellow stains had led nowhere. ‘We are going to inspect Faricius’s belongings. Perhaps they will yield some kind of clue.’

The Carmelite Friary was a compact institution on Milne Street, the buildings of which were smaller than those of the Dominicans, but which boasted a large and pleasant garden that ran down to the river near Small Bridges Street. Like the other friaries, it was dominated by a two-storeyed building that had a refectory on the ground floor with a dormitory on the upper floor. With it, stables, a kitchen and a chapter house formed a neat quadrangle, while the Prior’s house was a pleasant extension that jutted out to the south. The Prior’s quarters boasted a private chapel on the ground floor, with a chamber on the upper floor that was an office during the day and a bedchamber for Lincolne at night.

When they were shown into his chamber, Prior Lincolne was standing on a stool with a stick in his hand, making lunging swipes at the cobwebs that hung in silken threads from the rafters. Already several large splinters of oaken beam lay scattered across the rugs, where he had been overly rough with his cleaning.

‘Spiders,’ he announced as they walked in. ‘I hate spiders. I do not like the way their webs entangle themselves in my hair.’

Looking at Lincolne’s peculiar topknot, Bartholomew understood why. The tuft of hair barely cleared the lowest of the beams, and would have acted like a magnet to anything hanging from them. The physician imagined that it collected all manner of dirt as it rubbed its way across the ceilings in the various rooms Lincolne would have been obliged to enter during the course of a day.

‘We would like to inspect Faricius’s belongings, if we may,’ said Michael, flinching backward as an especially vigorous poke from Lincolne brought down a shower of plaster. He pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘Do you not have servants for that sort of thing?’

‘We do,’ replied Lincolne, stepping down from the stool, but still towering over his three visitors. ‘However, I have exacting standards, and they seldom reach them. You want to inspect Faricius’s belongings, you say? Why?’

‘We are taking his death very seriously,’ replied Michael. ‘And we want to leave no stone unturned. It is possible that there is something in his possessions that may throw light on the identity of the killer.’

‘Are you saying that your other enquiries have come to nothing?’ asked Lincolne astutely. ‘What about the Dominicans? You would be better concentrating your efforts there, as I have told you before.’

‘And so we will,’ said Michael. ‘But first, I want to see Faricius’s cell.’

Lincolne sighed impatiently. ‘Very well, then. Come with me.’

‘I am sure you have more important things to do than accompany us,’ said Michael. He glanced up at the ceiling. ‘There are spiders to declare war upon.’

‘They can wait,’ said Lincolne, casting a venomous glower at the hapless beings in the rafters. ‘Perhaps the respite will lure them out, and I shall be able to catch them when I return.’

They followed him across the yard to the dormitory. It was afternoon, and a time when the friars were accustomed to a period of rest or private prayer before attending vespers, so a number of them were in the dormitory, some sleeping and some reading. The dormitory comprised a large room that was blocked into tiny cells just large enough to house a mattress, a prie-dieu and a couple of hooks on the wall. Lincolne led the way to a cell near a window that overlooked the street.

‘This was Faricius’s bed. As you can see, he owned very little, but what he had is here.’

The cell was spartan, as a friar’s home was supposed to be, unlike most of the others they had passed, which boasted rugs on the floor and colourful blankets. A bloodstained cloak, that was evidently the one Faricius had been wearing when he died, hung on one hook, while a spare habit adorned the other. A simple wooden cross had been nailed to the wall and a psalter lay open on the bed, as though Faricius had been reading it before he took his fateful last journey.

Michael knelt and peered under the bed, reaching out to withdraw a rough chest that was stored there. Inside were several clean shirts, some woollen undergarments, a spare scrip, and several pens and some parchment. There was also a much-fingered copy of William Heytesbury’s Regulae Solvendi Sophismata. Lincolne gave a gasp of horror and snatched it from Michael’s hands.

‘What is this work of the Devil doing in our friary?’ he demanded. The fury in his voice brought the resting friars, including the gap-toothed Horneby, scurrying to see what was happening.

‘Ah, Horneby,’ said Michael with a predatory smile. ‘Just the man I wanted to see. You do not know where I might find young Simon Lynne, do you?’

Horneby looked furtive. ‘He is probably in the garden, praying.’

Even Lincolne looked doubtful. ‘He will be in the friary somewhere,’ he said to Michael. ‘I have been keeping our students in, because I do not want them attacked by violent Dominicans.’

‘Then I want to speak to Lynne,’ said Michael. He flicked his fingers at a youngster with bad skin. ‘Fetch him, if you please.’

‘Never mind Lynne,’ said Lincolne, turning his attention back to the book, away from the student who scrambled to do Michael’s bidding. He held the tome carefully by one corner, as if it were a dead mouse. ‘I want to know what this filth is doing in my friary.’

‘I imagine Faricius was reading it so he could refute Heytesbury’s arguments,’ said Horneby, although he was unable to disguise the doubt in his voice. ‘It is difficult to prove someone wrong if you are unacquainted with the essence of his argument.’

Lincolne thrust the book into Horneby’s hands. ‘Burn it,’ he ordered uncompromisingly.

‘We have just returned from St Radegund’s Convent,’ said Michael, in the silence that followed. Evidently, none of the student-friars was easy with the notion of burning Faricius’s property. Horneby certainly did not hurry away to do his Prior’s bidding; he stayed where he was, cradling the book in his arms, although at the mention of St Radegund’s, he shot Michael one of the most furtive looks Bartholomew had ever seen, so that the physician suspected the student knew exactly where his friend had been. Lincolne merely seemed surprised by the monk’s statement.

‘What were you doing there?’ he asked in distaste. ‘It is not a place frequented by decent men.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘It is a community of Benedictine nuns.’

‘It is a community of loose women who wear Benedictine habits,’ corrected Lincolne. ‘Why the Bishop does not expel them and donate the buildings to the University is quite beyond me.’

‘Have you never been there, to observe the nuns at prayer?’ asked Michael casually, although Bartholomew was aware of the intense interest behind his seemingly careless question.

‘That would be an impossibility,’ said Lincolne, taking Michael quite literally. ‘I hear they do not keep their offices – or rather, they keep their offices at times that suit them, rather than when they are supposed to be.’

‘Do you know this from personal observation?’ pressed Michael, still trying to ascertain whether Lincolne was prepared to admit that he had been to one of Walcote’s nocturnal gatherings.

‘I know from rumours,’ replied Lincolne, frustratingly obtuse. ‘I say all my offices here or in the chapel. But you have not told us what took you to such a place, Brother.’

‘Matt was called there to physick the Prioress,’ lied Michael.

‘What was wrong with her?’ asked Lincolne. ‘Was it anything to do with the fact that she had to be carried through the streets of Cambridge in a drunken stupor just after dawn this morning? What did you recommend, Doctor? A dish of raw eggs and pepper, and that she should be more abstemious in the future?’

‘Is that what the Carmelites use?’ asked Bartholomew, answering with a question because he was reluctant to discuss the Prioress’s medical details with Lincolne.

Lincolne nodded, unabashed by the implication that his colleagues should require such a remedy in the first place. ‘And if we have no pepper, we use salt.’

Michael clearly wanted to press the matter of St Radegund’s further, but was aware that if he pushed it too far, Lincolne would grow suspicious, which might prove unproductive in the long term. He sighed and turned his attention to the open psalter, instead. At that moment, the boy with the bad skin returned to say that he could not find Lynne. Horneby’s unease visibly increased, although Lincolne did not seem particularly concerned.

‘He will be hiding up a tree or in an attic somewhere. He will turn up when he is hungry.’

Bartholomew was watching Horneby, who fidgeted and shuffled under his penetrating gaze. ‘What do you think, Master Horneby?’ he asked, making the young man squirm even more. ‘Will Lynne appear at dinnertime?’

Horneby nodded quickly, casting quick, agitated glances at his friends. Bartholomew was about to pursue the matter when everyone jumped at a loud, startled exclamation from Timothy.

‘What is this?’ demanded the monk, straightening from where he had emptied the contents of Faricius’s spare scrip on to his bed. Everyone craned forward to see what he had found. Between thumb and forefinger, Timothy held a large ring with a heavy stone that looked as if it were a ruby. Lincolne seemed astonished; Horneby, however, lost some of his ruddy colour.

Bartholomew thought back to when Faricius had died: the student-friar had been almost desperate to locate his scrip. Was it because he thought it contained the ruby ring – that he had forgotten he had left it in his chest at home? The strings that attached the scrip to Faricius’s belt had been cut, and Bartholomew had assumed the scrip had been stolen by whoever had killed him. However, although the cut marks appeared recent, there was nothing to say that they had been made at the time of his death. Perhaps it had happened the previous day, or even earlier.

Or was there a simpler, more sinister explanation: that whoever killed Faricius and stole his purse had replaced the scrip, complete with ring, among the dead friar’s personal possessions? Bartholomew supposed it was not impossible that some colleague, overwhelmed by guilt at what he had done, had sought to make amends by putting back what he had stolen. But that meant Faricius’s murderer was a Carmelite, the only ones to have free and unlimited access to the cells in the dormitory.

While the others clustered around to look at the ring, Bartholomew picked up the purse. Its strings were old and worn. There was nothing to suggest they had been cut, and nothing to suggest that the killer had been clever and had replaced the newly cut thongs with old and dirty ones. The leather ties were of an identical colour to the purse, and had frayed in such a way that Bartholomew was fairly certain they were the originals.

He rubbed a hand through his hair. What did this mean? That someone had stolen Faricius’s other purse, and that his personal possessions ran to more than one valuable ring? That Faricius was delirious when he had urged Bartholomew to locate his scrip, and that he had forgotten the one that held the ring was safe in his friary?

‘It is a ring,’ said Lincolne, stating the obvious as he took it from Timothy. ‘We do not encourage our friars to keep this sort of thing for themselves. I imagine he was given it, and that he intended to pass it to the friary’s coffer, but his murder meant that he could not do so.’ He slipped the ring into his own scrip.

‘Do you now?’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows to indicate that he was not so sure. He turned to the students. ‘And who gave this pretty bauble to Faricius for the Carmelite coffer?’

‘We have never seen it before,’ said Horneby immediately. ‘We do not know where it came from.’

‘What about the rest of you?’ asked Michael, glancing around at the assembled students. ‘Does anyone know who might have given Faricius this ring? It looks valuable, and I cannot see that he would have mentioned it to no one.’

The chorus of denials was accompanied by shaken heads. Bartholomew studied the students carefully. Some appeared to be surprised by the find, while others were more difficult to read. Horneby licked nervous lips, and his eyes could only be called shifty. While Bartholomew could not be sure that he was actually lying, it was obvious that there was something about Faricius’s death that was making him anxious and even a little frightened.

‘How remarkable,’ said Michael mildly. ‘Faricius was presented with a valuable gift for the friary, and yet he shared news of his good fortune with none of you. Was he always so secretive?’

‘Perhaps the Dominicans put it there,’ suggested Horneby. ‘They want you to question Faricius’s good character, so that you will not blame them for his murder.’

‘And how do you imagine they got in?’ demanded Timothy, who clearly thought Horneby’s suggestion ludicrous. ‘Surely, in a busy place like this dormitory, it would be extremely difficult for a stranger to enter and start tampering with people’s private possessions?’

Lincolne intervened. ‘Horneby’s suggestion was meant to be helpful, but we can all see it is implausible. But perhaps the ring had some sentimental value for Faricius, and he decided to keep it, rather than forfeiting it when he was ordained.’

‘He would never have broken the rules of our Order in that way,’ said Horneby hotly. ‘He was a good and saintly man.’

‘Keeping a ring from a loved relative does not make him wicked,’ said Lincolne gently, to calm him. He turned to Michael. ‘But it does not give a Dominican the right to murder him, either.’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘It does not.’

Bartholomew, Michael and Timothy left the friary none the wiser regarding Faricius’s death, Lynne’s mysterious behaviour or what Horneby was so clearly hiding, and began to walk back along Milne Street. Bartholomew told them what he had reasoned about the purse, and the two Benedictines seemed dispirited that there were more questions than answers. Dusk came early, because of the rain, and Michael announced that he was tired and that it was time to go home. Timothy returned to Ely Hall, while Bartholomew walked with the monk along Milne Street towards Michaelhouse.

‘There is Matilde,’ said Michael, pointing out a slender, elegant woman who was picking her way carefully among the piles of refuse that lined the sides of the road. ‘I wonder if she knows that the nuns of St Radegund’s are plying their trade in her line of business. Matilde! Hey!’

His stentorian roar drew several startled glances from onlookers, and more than one of them smiled at the sight of the fat monk hailing a prostitute so brazenly on one of the town’s main thoroughfares. Matilde was also surprised to be addressed at such a volume, but her face lit with pleasure when she saw that Bartholomew was with Michael.

‘Matthew,’ she said warmly, as she waited for them to catch up. She looked at his wet cloak and the clay that clung to the bottom of his boots. ‘Where have you been? Visiting the lepers?’

‘Not today,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘I examined them about a month ago, and found them as hale and hearty as can be expected. Unfortunately, there is little else I can do for them.’

‘You ease their discomfort,’ said Matilde. ‘That is more than they expect. But the sisters tell me that you have more murders to investigate – including poor Will Walcote’s.’

‘The sisters,’ mused Michael, using the term Matilde always employed when discussing the town’s prostitutes. ‘It is odd you should mention sisters, Matilde. Matt and I went to St Radegund’s Convent this afternoon.’

Matilde’s pretty face hardened. ‘Why were you there? It is no place for decent-minded men.’

Coming from a courtesan, this was damning indeed. Bartholomew stared at her. In his eyes, she was the most attractive woman in Cambridge, and possessed a sharp mind that he greatly admired. So far, their relationship had remained frustratingly chaste, and was confined to occasional evenings spent in her house with some of her ‘sisters’ for company, or the odd stroll in the water meadows near the river. The more Bartholomew came to know her, the more he liked her, and he was under the impression that she no longer practised her trade. No one ever claimed to secure her favours, and he suspected that her position as unofficial spokeswoman for the town’s whores left her little time for physical liaisons with customers.

‘You know about the activities of the nuns at St Radegund’s?’ asked Michael.

‘I imagine those will be known from here to Ely,’ replied Matilde dryly. ‘But the sisters are not concerned. Most men are uncomfortable with employing nuns for those sorts of services, and find it disconcerting to beckon the woman of their choice from her prayers in the church.’

‘I did not see much praying when we were there today,’ said Michael. ‘They claimed the church was too cold.’

‘Cold or not, that is where you will find them of an evening. The church is always open for “parishioners”, so the men can walk in and signal to whoever it is they want.’

‘How sordid,’ said Bartholomew in distaste.

Michael nodded agreement. ‘That sort of thing is much more pleasantly conducted in the conducive surroundings of a tavern. Churches are too stark for it.’

‘Thank you for that, Brother,’ said Matilde. ‘It is always good to know the views of monks on these matters. But not everyone at St Radegund’s is a nun, you know. Some are the daughters of noblemen, who have been left in the Prioress’s care until they can be married off.’

‘Most of them will be an unsaleable commodity if they remain there too long,’ said Michael with a chuckle. ‘It is scarcely a safe repository for virtuous young ladies.’

‘The worst of them all is that Tysilia,’ said Matilde disapprovingly. ‘I suppose men find her attractive because she is stupid. Presumably, her appalling lack of wits makes them feel superior.’

‘I take it you do not like her?’ asked Bartholomew mildly.

‘No,’ said Matilde shortly. ‘And if you meet her, you will see why. But I do not want to spoil a nice day by discussing her. What induced you to go to St Radegund’s in the first place? It is too early to secure the nuns’ personal services, although I am sure Tysilia would make an exception.’

‘I was following a clue regarding the murder of Will Walcote,’ replied Michael.

Matilde nodded slowly. ‘Yolande de Blaston – you remember her; she is married to the carpenter who worked at Michaelhouse last year – saw his body being cut down on her way home from the Mayor’s house. Poor Walcote. He was a good man.’

‘He was,’ agreed Michael. ‘Yolande did not see anything else, did she? Did she spot anyone who should not have been out at that time?’

‘No one should have been out at that time – including her,’ said Matilde. ‘It was well past the curfew. She did not mention anyone else, but I will ask. But this does not explain why you went to look for answers at St Radegund’s Convent.’

‘We learned that Walcote had a series of secret meetings with various scholars,’ said Michael vaguely. ‘They were held at the convent.’

‘Oh, those,’ said Matilde. ‘Yolande has a long-standing arrangement with Prior Lincolne of the Carmelites, but he cancelled her twice to attend these meetings.’

‘But I have only just learned about them,’ said Michael, astonished that Matilde should be in possession of information to which he had not been privy. Bartholomew smiled, amused that Lincolne should be so damning of the nuns’ behaviour when he had a ‘long-standing arrangement’ with one of the town’s most popular prostitutes.

‘I have known about the meetings for months,’ said Matilde carelessly. ‘The first one must have been around the time that Master Runham of Michaelhouse was buried, because I recall Yolande telling me that Lincolne later gave her one of the coins he had retrieved from Wilson’s effigy, to compensate her for the inconvenience of being postponed.’

‘How much later?’ asked Michael. ‘I want to know exactly when the first meeting took place.’

Matilde gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I am sorry, Brother, but I doubt whether Yolande will remember that. It was November or December.’

‘I do not suppose Lincolne told Yolande what was discussed at these meetings, did he?’ asked Michael hopefully.

Matilde frowned as she tried to remember. ‘Not precisely, but I know the leader of the Franciscans was there. And dear old Master Kenyngham from Michaelhouse. If Kenyngham were present, then you can be assured that nothing untoward was afoot.’

‘Nothing untoward involving Kenyngham,’ corrected Michael. ‘But Kenyngham is not one of the world’s most astute men, and he has a dangerous habit of assuming that everyone has good intentions. They have not. Kenyngham may not have understood what he was getting into.’

‘There is no suggestion that these meetings involved anything sinister,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They could have been discussing the term’s debating titles for all you know.’

‘In a convent that has a reputation for lewd behaviour? In the middle of the night? Without informing the Senior Proctor?’ Michael gave a snort of derision. ‘Do not speak drivel, Matt!’

‘Whatever it was must have been important,’ said Matilde thoughtfully. ‘Why else would such men risk going to a place like that at night? Still, I suppose it has the virtue of being the last place anyone would think of looking for them.’

‘Ask whether Yolande can recall anything that may help me,’ instructed Michael. ‘This case is quite baffling, and any information would be gratefully received.’

‘I can do better than that,’ said Matilde. ‘I have been feeling tired and bored lately, and I am in sore need of something to stimulate my wits. I think a brief sojourn at St Radegund’s might be exactly what is required.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘It is not the kind of place you would enjoy at all. And anyway, I thought you did not like Tysilia.’

‘I do not,’ said Matilde. ‘And that is even more reason for me to pit my wits against hers and see whether her appalling stupidity is genuine.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael.

Matilde spread her hands. ‘What I say. I find it extraordinary that someone could be so dim-witted, and I cannot help but wonder whether it is a ruse to hide a very cunning mind.’

‘I thought the same thing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I was even considering the possibility that she played some kind of role in these nocturnal meetings.’

‘I hardly think so!’ exclaimed Michael in disbelief. ‘Such as what?’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But she is the Bishop’s niece, and the Bishop would not be averse to using a relative to help him in his various plots.’

‘True, but not someone who genuinely believes that the moon is made of green cheese and that leaves fall from the trees in autumn because they are tired of holding on to the branch,’ said Michael. ‘She is just too stupid – an intelligent person would know she was overacting and moderate her performance to one that was more plausible.’

‘I disagree,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I think she is sitting in St Radegund’s at this very moment laughing to herself, because she thinks she has fooled you.’

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Matilde. She beamed suddenly, and clasped her hands in front of her. ‘But she will not fool me, and this is just the kind of challenge that will provide me with the kind of diversion I need. It is an excellent idea. I wish it had occurred to me earlier.’

‘It is a terrible idea,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Michael is right: the time and place of these meetings suggests that they were not held to discuss something innocent, and that is precisely the reason why you should not go.’

‘They probably will not let you in, anyway,’ said Michael. ‘Even St Radegund’s cannot risk having the unofficial spokeswoman of the town’s prostitutes as a guest.’

Matilde grinned conspiratorially. ‘Do you recall when you invited me to the Founder’s Feast at Michaelhouse a couple of years ago, Matthew? You should remember – we were virtually the only ones who were sober at the end of it.’

Bartholomew smiled, although most Founder’s Feasts at Michaelhouse ended with everyone face down on the table, and his memories of them tended to blend together. But he recalled this one. ‘You dressed as an old woman called Mistress Horner, because you did not want anyone to know who you were.’

Matilde raised her eyebrows. ‘I disguised myself because you were worried about inviting a courtesan to dine in your college, and because you had invited that murdering Eleanor Tyler as well. She abandoned you for the more appealing attentions of your students, if I recall correctly.’

‘All right, all right,’ grumbled Bartholomew, not wanting to be reminded about that particular adventure. ‘What has the Founder’s Feast to do with you going to St Radegund’s?’

‘It is not I who will sojourn there,’ said Matilde simply. ‘It is Mistress Horner.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘It is too dangerous. What if they intrude on you while you are in bed and learn that Mistress Horner’s ample middle owes itself to a couple of cushions, or that her wrinkles disappear in water?’

‘I will make sure that does not happen.’

‘The good nuns might not want fat old ladies in their convent,’ Michael pointed out.

‘They will accept my offer of five groats for board and lodging,’ said Matilde mischievously. ‘They would agree to anything for five groats.’

‘That is true,’ admitted Michael. ‘They would.’

‘You cannot do this,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘If we are right, and Tysilia’s stupidity conceals a cunning mind that is involved in the murder of Michael’s Junior Proctor, then it is simply too risky. I cannot let you do it.’

‘Are you concerned for my safety, Matthew?’ asked Matilde playfully. ‘Or for my virtue?’

‘Your safety,’ replied Bartholomew immediately. He faltered when he realised what his words had implied, and flushed when Michael and Matilde laughed at him.

‘Are you sure you do not mind doing this?’ asked Michael of Matilde. ‘I cannot see how else I will be able to cut through the veil of secrecy and lies that those nuns have thrown over their activities. They may be perfectly innocent – well, as innocent as running a brothel in a convent can be – and we may be on the wrong path altogether.’

‘Then I will find out,’ said Matilde confidently. ‘And I will expose that Tysilia as a liar and a cheat, if that is what she is.’

‘I cannot believe you are encouraging her to do this,’ said Bartholomew to Michael.

Matilde sighed, and laid an elegant hand on Bartholomew’s arm. ‘Do not worry so, Matthew. I will be perfectly safe. As a fat and unattractive matron, I am unlikely to be invited to take part in anything too exotic, and all I plan to do is listen and watch. It will only be for a few days, anyway.’

‘If you discover anything, tell us immediately,’ advised Michael. ‘Do not deal with it yourself. Matt or I will visit St Radegund’s every day, and you can indicate then whether all is well.’

Matilde’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of an adventure. ‘Do not ask to see me personally, or they will be suspicious. I will pretend to be deaf, so that they will think they do not need to lower their voices around me. So, if you see me cupping both hands around my ears, you will know it is a sign that I have nothing to report; if I fiddle with a ring on my finger, it means I wish to speak with you privately.’

‘I do not like this at all,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If Tysilia is the kind of woman we suspect she is, then you will not be safe; she will quickly guess what you are doing. There must be another way to look into her dealings.’

‘I can think of none,’ said Michael. ‘And time is passing. The longer we take to apprehend this killer, the less likely it is that we shall catch him. Do you want Will’s murderer to go free?’

‘Of course not, but–’

‘I will be perfectly all right,’ said Matilde. ‘And, as I said, such an adventure will help me rouse myself from the lethargy that has been dogging me since the beginning of Lent. I am feeling better already: I have a challenge to rise to, and Easter is almost here.’ She stood on tiptoe and quickly kissed Bartholomew’s cheek. ‘I promise to be careful, and you must promise to do the same. But together, we will see Will’s killer brought to justice.’

She was gone in the gathering dusk before Bartholomew could voice any further objections, and he suspected they would be futile anyway. Matilde had made up her mind, and he knew that there was nothing he could say or do to prevent her from going ahead with her plans. He watched her walk away, thinking about how dear she had become to him over the last few years.

Michael yawned hugely. ‘It has been a long day, and I am exhausted. Tomorrow, we will interview Morden of the Dominicans – I want to know more about those six student friars whom you drove away from Faricius – but tonight I only want a decent meal and a good night’s sleep.’

‘And we should talk to Prior Pechem of the Franciscans, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He may tell us why he was at these meetings.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘I agree. But we must do so with care. I do not want to alarm this coven into silence. I was afraid to question Lincolne too vigorously about the meetings, and I am reluctant to interrogate Pechem for the same reason. If they close ranks, we might never have the truth from them. To find out what we want to know, we shall have to be circumspect.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘We could just ask Master Kenyngham. He may tell us what we need to know without resorting to trickery.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Michael softly. ‘I have not forgotten Master Kenyngham.’

Bartholomew slept badly that night, his dreams mingling unpleasantly with his waking concerns for Matilde and his sadness over the sudden death of Walcote. He tossed and turned, and when the tinny bell finally clanked to inform scholars that it was time for mass, he had only just fallen into a deep sleep. He splashed himself with cold water in an attempt to render himself more alert, grabbed his clothes from the wall hooks, and pulled his boots on the wrong feet before realising his mistake. He was the last to join the procession in the yard, earning a warning glance from Langelee for his tardiness.

After the service, as he was walking back to Michaelhouse, a plump, crook-backed woman nodded soberly to him, and he felt his stomach churn when he recognised the bright, clear eyes of Matilde. She rode a small palfrey, and was already heading to St Radegund’s Convent to begin her adventure. He considered calling out, but knew that to expose her disguise in the High Street would put her in even greater danger. With a heavy heart, he followed Langelee back to Michaelhouse, where he ate a bowl of grey-coloured oatmeal that tasted of sawdust.

Leaving Langelee to ensure that his students read a tract from Theophilus’s De Urinis, Bartholomew set off with Michael to visit the Dominican Friary, where the monk intended to ask Prior Morden for more details about the six students Bartholomew had encountered near Faricius. Bartholomew fretted about Matilde as they walked, although Michael claimed he was being overprotective and that she knew perfectly well how to look after herself.

It was another murky day, with leaden skies filled with fast-moving clouds, and only the faintest hint of pink glimmering in the east. It had been a wet night, and the streets were clogged with rain-thinned horse manure that seeped through shoes and clung to the hems of cloaks.

When they arrived at the Dominican Friary, the priests were just finishing a hearty meal of coddled eggs, fresh bread and dates, the smell of which made Bartholomew hungry again. Ringstead, the Prior’s secretary, came to greet them, but said that Morden had gone to see if he could locate his Precentor, Henry de Kyrkeby, who had not been seen since Monday afternoon.

One of the six students that Bartholomew had driven away from Faricius – the one whom Morden had called Bulmer – came to stand next to Ringstead, his demeanour hostile and sullen. Bartholomew wondered whether Bulmer was habitually disagreeable, or whether it was just the early morning visit from a proctor that prompted his unfriendly attitude. The physician hoped Bulmer was bound for a career at court, and that the Dominicans would not foist the ill-tempered lad on some unsuspecting village as parish priest.

‘We are terribly worried about Kyrkeby,’ said Ringstead. ‘He has never been missing for two days before.’

‘Have you reported his absence to the proctors’ office?’ asked Michael, irritable that he had yet another problem to solve. ‘I have beadles who are paid to hunt down missing scholars.’

Ringstead nodded. ‘Beadle Meadowman took details yesterday, and said he would ask the others to look for him on their patrols. Meanwhile, Prior Morden has gone to check the churches, to see if Kyrkeby is praying and has lost track of time.’

‘Is he a visionary, then?’ asked Michael, raising sceptical eyebrows. ‘Two days is a long time to be unaware of the passing of time. I would expect hunger to drive him from his prayers and back to his friary.’

‘Not all men are ruled by the calls of their stomachs,’ said Bulmer rudely, looking meaningfully at Michael’s ample girth.

‘Kyrkeby is a saintly man, and he might well be lost in contemplation somewhere,’ said Ringstead hastily, seeing Michael’s eyebrows draw together at the insult. He was older than Bulmer, and had the sense to realise that it paid to stay on the right side of the Senior Proctor. ‘He often wanders off to sit in churches.’

‘Of course, it is possible that the Carmelites have done something to him, in revenge for Faricius,’ said Bulmer, gazing at Michael with defiant eyes.

‘And what did you do to Faricius?’ Michael pounced.

Bulmer said impatiently, ‘That is not what I meant. We did nothing to him, but the Carmelites probably do not believe that.’

Michael sighed heavily. ‘Have you looked at Kyrkeby’s belongings, to see whether anything is missing? If he is as other-worldly as you say, he may have wandered off somewhere and simply forgotten to mention it to anyone.’

‘It was the first thing we did when we realised he was not here,’ said Ringstead. ‘There is nothing to indicate that he planned to leave the town. Quite the contrary, in fact: as we mentioned when you last came, he is due to give the lecture in St Mary’s Church on Sunday. He is looking forward to it enormously.’

‘He is going to speak in defence of nominalism,’ said Bulmer, throwing out the information in much the same way as he might a challenge to a fist fight.

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘So I understand. It is a rather controversial subject to choose.’

Ringstead raised his hands, palms upward. ‘That should not deter a good scholar, Brother. Indeed, controversial subjects must be better argued than dull ones, because there are more people looking for flaws in your logic.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘My best-argued lectures are on medical issues that are new or unusual.’

‘But to choose nominalism, when there is already trouble between the Dominicans and the Carmelites, is irresponsible and self-indulgent,’ said Michael disapprovingly.

‘Scholarly disputation should never be a victim to narrow-minded bigotry,’ retorted Bulmer. ‘Just because the Carmelites are traditionalists and unwilling to change does not mean that reason and learning should stand still to accommodate them.’

‘I agree,’ said Bartholomew, neatly taking the wind out of his sails. ‘We would never progress in our understanding of the world if we were all too afraid to embrace new ideas.’

‘So when was the last time anyone saw Kyrkeby?’ asked Michael, impatient with the discussion and wanting to move on.

‘Monday afternoon,’ said Ringstead promptly. ‘He was working on his lecture, and had been avoiding a lot of his duties and obligations because of it. His absence in the refectory was what allowed the students to escape and march on the Carmelites last Saturday.’

‘I saw him on Monday afternoon,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was ill, and I was late going to Edith’s house, because I was tending him.’

Ringstead nodded. ‘After you left, he continued to work on his lecture, and that was the last anyone saw of him.’

Michael sighed. He wanted to talk to Morden, not investigate the disappearance of a cleric who would undoubtedly show up when it suited him. ‘Show me Kyrkeby’s cell,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Perhaps you missed something that may give me a clue as to his whereabouts.’

Ringstead led the way, with Bulmer trailing them like some aggressive guard dog. Bartholomew glanced uneasily behind him, half expecting to feel teeth sink into one of his ankles.

Like the Carmelites’ dormitory, the Dominicans’ was divided into tiny cells, some more homely than others. Bartholomew supposed that it was difficult to impose too much poverty on ambitious young men destined for high positions in the King’s court or their Order, which explained why most of them boasted quarters that were so much more luxurious than his own.

Kyrkeby’s cell was larger than the others’, as befitted a man of his elevated office, and contained a handsome ironbound chest as well as a bed, a chair and a small table. Notes were scattered across the table, and a quick glance at them told Bartholomew that Kyrkeby had been working on his lecture there. Judging from the amount of crossings out and corrections on the numerous scraps of parchment, it was not something that had flowed easily.

Michael’s confidence in his ability to glance at a man’s possessions and identify his whereabouts was misplaced. There was nothing to indicate why – or even whether – Kyrkeby had disappeared, and Bartholomew wondered if the man realised that he had bitten off more than he could chew with his impending lecture, and had left the town before he could make a fool of himself. Perhaps his attack of illness on Monday had frightened him so much that he had decided not to risk his health further by going through what promised to be a tense and unpleasant occasion. He had certainly been agitated and out of sorts that day.

‘Does anyone know whether there is anything missing?’ asked Michael, becoming frustrated by the passing of time and the lack of progress. ‘Are all his clothes here, for instance?’

‘As far as we can tell,’ said Ringstead. ‘One of his cloaks has gone, but that tells us nothing, since he would wear it even if he were only going to the nearest church.’

‘He owns a lot of jewellery,’ added Bulmer irrelevantly. ‘Rings, crosses and so on.’

‘Does he?’ asked Michael. ‘And why would a Dominican have “rings, crosses and so on”?’

‘He has no more than anyone else,’ said Ringstead briskly, so that Bartholomew had the impression that Bulmer had just been told to shut up. Ringstead was in a difficult position, with his Prior and Precentor absent, and the reputation of the friary in his inexperienced hands.

‘And is any of this jewellery missing?’ asked Michael.

Ringstead opened a small drawer that was partly concealed under the table. In it were several rings, a jewelled hair comb and a fine selection of silver crosses.

Michael’s eyes were wide as he inspected them. ‘This is an impressive collection to be owned by a priest sworn to poverty. But you have not answered my question: is any of it missing?’

Ringstead shrugged. ‘I have no idea. You will have to ask Prior Morden that. He knows Kyrkeby better than I do.’

‘I expect Kyrkeby will turn up,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together as though he imagined that was the end of the matter. ‘I will instruct my beadles to pay special attention to the churches tonight, and if he is in one, then they will find him. Perhaps he was so disappointed with the behaviour of his novices on Saturday that he wants nothing to do with you all.’

Since Morden was absent, Michael quizzed Ringstead about the characters of the six Dominican students he had arrested – and released – in connection with the death of Faricius. But Ringstead was a poor source of information: he was not inclined to regale Michael with any illuminating gossip about the six, and was reluctant to answer any meaningful questions while his Prior was absent. Bartholomew did not blame him. Michael was a clever man, adept at latching on to seemingly insignificant sentences and reading into them whole chapters of information. Quite understandably, Ringstead did not want to be the cause of further arrests and suspicions.

With a sigh of exasperation, Michael curtly instructed Ringstead to keep the students inside the friary until further notice, and took his leave. Rain still fell, and everything dripped. The eaves of houses, the leaves of trees and bushes, and even the signs that swung over the doors of merchants’ shops released a steady tattoo of droplets that drummed, splattered, clicked and tapped on to the mud on the ground. Thatches were soaked through, and the plaster walls of the houses along the High Street were stained a deep, dreary grey. Everything stank of dampness and mould.

Michael was keen to visit the Franciscans, to ask their Prior why he had been among those attending Walcote’s meetings, but Bartholomew remembered that Faricius was due to be buried that day, and recommended that they go to the Carmelite Friary first.

Reluctantly, Michael trudged after Bartholomew along Milne Street. They arrived to see the massive form of Lincolne, with its curiously short habit, leading the way from the friary to St Botolph’s Church, where a requiem mass was to be said. Immediately behind Lincolne was a crude wooden coffin, which had such large gaps in it that the dead man’s fingers poked through one. Bartholomew supposed Faricius was lucky to have a coffin at all: since the plague, wood and carpenters were expensive, and most people hired a parish coffin, reclaimed when the funeral was over. Horneby was among the pall-bearers, while behind them trailed the other Carmelite masters and students.

‘We need to talk, Brother,’ said Lincolne in a low voice as he passed. He continued to walk, so Michael and Bartholomew fell into step next to him.

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘We have more questions to ask anyway, but they will wait until you have finished your sorry task here.’

‘My business is more urgent than yours,’ said Lincolne presumptuously. ‘I am worried about Simon Lynne: he has not been seen since Monday and his friends say they do not know where he is. I should have realised something was amiss yesterday, when you asked to speak to him and he could not be found.’

‘Why are you concerned now?’ asked Michael, seeing an opportunity to solicit information before telling Lincolne that he had seen Lynne himself only the previous day. ‘Do you think he might have come to some harm? Or is it that his disappearance has something to do with the fact that he is clearly hiding something relating to the death of Faricius?’

Lincolne shot him an unpleasant look. ‘It is far more likely that the Dominicans have threatened him in some way. It would be typical behaviour for men who profess to be nominalists.’

‘The Dominicans’ philosophical beliefs are hardly the issue here–’ began Michael.

‘Of course they are the issue,’ snapped Lincolne, cutting him off. ‘They are heresy!’

Michael refused to be drawn into a debate. ‘I do not care. I am only interested in who killed Faricius. You claim that Lynne might be in danger from the Dominicans. Why? Has he done something to wrong them?’

‘You seem very willing to believe the worst of us, Brother,’ said Lincolne coldly. ‘It is most unjust. The Dominicans march on our friary, Faricius is murdered and Lynne is missing, yet you seem to hold us responsible.’

‘When did you last see Lynne?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether the student-friar might have inflicted some harm on the missing Henry de Kyrkeby and then run away. It had been bad luck on Lynne’s part that he had chosen St Radegund’s as his haven when the Senior Proctor had visited it, and worse luck still that the foolish Tysilia was on gate duty. Any sensible nun would have checked with her Prioress first, before showing unexpected guests into the heart of the convent, and then Lynne could have slipped away unnoticed by Michael and Bartholomew.

‘He attended the evening mass in St Mary’s on Monday, but I have not set eyes on him since then. I assumed he was walking in our grounds – to be alone with his grief for Faricius – but when we searched, there was no sign of him.’

‘Monday night,’ mused Bartholomew softly. ‘It seems a lot happened on Monday night: Kyrkeby and Lynne went missing, and poor Walcote was murdered.’

‘Well, you have no cause to worry,’ said Michael to Lincolne. ‘I saw Lynne myself only yesterday, enjoying the dubious hospitality of the nuns at St Radegund’s Convent.’

‘St Radegund’s?’ echoed Lincolne in disbelief, stopping abruptly and stumbling when the coffin thumped into the back of him. He glared at the pall-bearers, who shifted uneasily, and then turned his attention back to Michael. ‘What was he doing there?’

‘What many other young men do, I imagine,’ said Michael blithely. ‘Confessing his sins to the Mother Superior.’

‘That Tysilia is at the heart of this,’ said Lincolne bitterly. ‘She is poison. Why she was not strangled at birth, I cannot imagine.’

‘That is not a very friarly attitude,’ said Michael, amused. ‘What do you have against her?’

‘She is a danger to men,’ said Lincolne uncompromisingly. ‘She uses her womanly wiles to seduce them into breaking their vows of chastity, and then, when they have betrayed themselves and God, she moves on to her next victim, leaving them with nothing.’

‘She has made herself available to other Carmelites, then, has she?’ asked Michael astutely.

Lincolne nodded. ‘My friars do their best, but they are young men when all is said and done, with young men’s desires.’

‘You cannot blame Tysilia because your friars cannot control their passions,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is unfair.’

He recalled a suicide just before Yuletide, when a Carmelite student-friar had thrown himself into the King’s Ditch. The note the young man left Lincolne indicated that the source of his deep unhappiness was the unrequited affection of a nun. The sad little letter had not mentioned Tysilia by name, but clearly Lincolne had drawn his own conclusions.

‘Tysilia is not like other women,’ insisted Lincolne. ‘She is…’ He gestured expansively, almost knocking the coffin from the shoulders of the pall-bearers as he sought to find the appropriate words to describe the Bishop’s niece.

‘Wanton?’ suggested Michael. ‘That is the term her uncle favours.’

‘It is more than that,’ said Lincolne. ‘Would you believe she even tried her charms on Master Kenyngham of Michaelhouse? She claimed to be in pain and insisted that he place his hand on her chest so that the warmth would heal her. Kenyngham, who hates to see people suffer, obliged, then when he was leaning over her she made a grab for him so that they both tumbled to the ground.’

Michael started to laugh. ‘Are you serious?’

‘I am quite serious,’ said Lincolne sternly. ‘And it is no laughing matter. But I should not be standing here in the middle of the street looking as though I am telling jokes when I should be leading Faricius to his requiem. We will speak later.’

Bartholomew thought that he and Michael should attend Faricius’s requiem, to see whether they could gather any clues regarding the student-friar’s death, but Michael demurred. He took Bartholomew’s arm and the physician found himself being steered in the direction of the Brazen George, the large and comfortable tavern on the High Street, where Michael was sufficiently well known to be able to commandeer a private chamber at the rear of the premises whenever he liked.

‘Just some warmed ale,’ Michael told the surprised taverner, who had come expecting to serve a sizeable meal. ‘Nothing else. We will not be here long.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked the landlord, wiping his hands on the white apron that was tied around his waist. ‘My wife baked some Lombard slices today, and I know they are a favourite of yours.’

Michael smiled. ‘You are kind, but I will just take the ale today, thank you.’

‘Well, I would like some,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am starving.’ He reached across the table and felt the monk’s forehead with the back of his hand. ‘You are not ill, are you?’

Michael pushed him away as the landlord left to fetch their order. ‘I do not spend all my time eating, you know. And I am growing tired of constant allusions to my girth. Even people I barely know have started to do it – like that Bulmer.’

‘You do not usually care what people think,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure you are well?’

Michael sighed, his large face sombre. ‘No murder is pleasant to investigate, but Walcote’s is more personal than most. I sense it will take all my wits to best the cunning mind responsible for it and it is a heavy responsibility.’

‘You were confident enough yesterday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What has changed your mind?’

‘Lincolne,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘And the missing Kyrkeby. And Lynne and Horneby and Bulmer and anyone else who either tells us lies or declines to tell us the complete truth. How can we hope to come to grips with this when no one is honest with us?’

Bartholomew tapped Michael lightly on the arm. ‘We will get to the bottom of it.’

‘It is all very odd,’ said Michael, taking a sip of the ale that the landlord had brought. ‘I knew the deaths of Walcote and Faricius were connected; I just knew it. First, there was that yellow stain you found on both their hands, and then we saw Faricius’s friend Lynne lurking around Barnwell Priory – where Walcote lived. You were wrong when you said they were unrelated.’

‘In my experience, killers keep to one method once they have met with success. Faricius was stabbed, but Walcote was hanged – two very different modes of execution.’

‘Perhaps one was spontaneous and the other planned,’ said Michael. ‘You cannot decide to hang someone on the spur of a moment unless you can lay your hands on a piece of rope.’

‘Several pieces of rope,’ said Bartholomew, selecting one of the Lombard slices – a mixture of figs and raisins wrapped in pastry and fried in lard. He took a bite and put the rest back on the platter. They were rich, not for wolfing down quickly, and now that he was not in competition with Michael for them, he could afford to eat at a more leisurely pace. ‘Rope was needed for his hands and feet, too. Also, although Walcote was not particularly big, he was fit. I do not think it would have been easy for one person to overpower him and string him up.’

‘It probably would not have been easy for two,’ said Michael, staring thoughtfully at the Lombard slices before reaching out and taking one. He stuffed the whole thing in his mouth.

‘Perhaps someone who lives near the Dominican Friary heard Walcote shouting for help,’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘Beadle Meadowman has already investigated that possibility,’ said Michael, taking another pastry and treating it to the same fate as the first. ‘He reported to me late last night, when you were in bed. No one heard anything or saw anything.’

‘I suppose people’s window shutters would be fastened,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was cold, wet and windy that night. Shutters not only stop you from seeing out, but they muffle sounds.’

‘That tale Lincolne just told us about Kenyngham and Tysilia was revealing,’ said Michael. ‘Kenyngham is no longer a young man, and he seldom ventures further than Michaelhouse or his own Priory of Gilbertines on Trumpington Way. So, how did he come to meet her? The answer is that he went to St Radegund’s, just as Eve Wasteneys and Matilde told us.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘And for Lincolne to have witnessed this exchange means that he must have been at St Radegund’s, too. Again, just as Eve and Matilde told us.’

‘I wonder how Walcote induced all those men to go to a place like St Radegund’s in the dead of night. It makes no sense. And why did he not tell me what he was doing?’

‘You really have no idea?’

‘None at all,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘I trusted Walcote, and often told him my secret plans. I am hurt that he did not see fit to reciprocate.’

‘Did you tell him everything?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael regarded him as though he were insane. ‘Of course not. I do not even tell you everything. But I did confide a great deal to Walcote. I am astonished that he had business with important men like Lincolne, Pechem and Kenyngham, and yet said nothing to me.’

‘Perhaps he was planning to surprise you with something,’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘Such as what? I do not like surprises – especially ones that involve secret meetings in a place like St Radegund’s. It sounds more like a plot than a surprise.’ He punched Bartholomew on the shoulder, his previous low spirits revived by the ale and his determination to discover what his Junior Proctor had been doing without his knowledge. ‘But we will find out whatever is afoot and we will solve these two murders.’

Bartholomew reached for the rest of his pastry to find it had gone. ‘I thought you had lost your appetite,’ he said as the monk swung his cloak around his shoulders. ‘I was the one who was hungry.’

‘How can you be thinking about food when we have a murderer to catch?’ demanded Michael accusingly. ‘Come on. Faricius’s requiem will be over now. We should talk to Prior Lincolne.’

Bartholomew refused to return to the Carmelite Friary until they had fulfilled their promise to visit Matilde at the Convent of St Radegund’s. The monk complained bitterly about the brisk walk along the Barnwell Causeway, but it was too cold to travel at the ambling pace he usually favoured. When they arrived at the convent, and had made their way through the dripping vegetation to the front gate, Michael was puffing and panting like a pair of bellows, although it had still not been fast enough to drive the chill from Bartholomew’s bones. Shivering, and with a sense of foreboding, he knocked on the door.

The grille snapped open, and the bright black eyes of Tysilia peered out at them. Before he could announce their business, the door had been opened, and Michael pushed his way across the threshold, still grumbling about the speed of the walk.

‘Do come in, Brother,’ said Tysilia to Michael’s back, as the monk headed towards the solar. Bartholomew glanced at her sharply, but could not tell whether she was being facetious, or merely reciting the words of welcome she had been trained to say.

‘We would like to speak to Dame Martyn,’ he said, feeling obliged to make at least some effort to explain their presence. ‘Is she in her quarters?’

‘Everyone is in the refectory,’ replied Tysilia, as she closed the door behind him. ‘We are having breakfast.’

‘Breakfast?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. Michael overheard and veered away from the direction of the solar to aim for a substantial building to his left. ‘But it is almost midday.’

Tysilia seemed surprised. ‘It is only midday if you rise at dawn. None of us do, I am pleased to say, and so for us it is breakfast time.’

‘But what about matins, prime and terce?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How do you keep those offices, if you wake so late?’

Tysilia waved a dismissive hand. ‘We leave those for the friars and monks to say. We are doing God a favour, actually. Can you imagine what it must be like to have all those voices clamouring at you at certain times of the day? I am sure He is grateful to us for our conflagration. Or do I mean for our condescension? All these long words sound the same to me.’

‘I imagine you mean “consideration”,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing her warily. He tried to read some expression in her dark eyes, but although they sparkled, they did so with a brilliance that was only superficially shiny, like a pair of Richard’s buttons. He could not tell whether a clever mind was thoroughly enjoying itself by presenting a false image to the world, or whether what he saw was all there was.

‘Have you caught your killer?’ she asked. ‘Is that why you are here again?’

Bartholomew glanced at her a second time, wondering whether her question was more than idle curiosity. He thought he glimpsed a flicker of something in her face, but then wondered if it were merely a trick of the light. He did not know what to think.

‘No,’ he replied shortly, not wanting to give away details to someone who might have more than a passing interest in the matter.

‘We have a fat woman staying with us,’ Tysilia chirped conversationally, as they walked towards the refectory. She did not seem to find his curt reply to her question worthy of comment. ‘She is paying five groats a day to escape from her demanding husband.’ Her pretty features creased into a moue of disgust. ‘I hope my uncle will not foist one of those on me. I am happier changing my lovers each week.’

‘Each week?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to keep the surprise from his voice at her unusual choice of topics. He wondered whether she was trying to shock him, and he did not want to give her the satisfaction of seeing he was embarrassed. ‘Do you not keep them longer than that?’

‘No,’ she said airily. ‘You see, the first few times a lover meets you, he is affectionate and only wants physical favours. But after about a week, he wants more than a romp between the covers, and likes to talk and ask questions. I cannot be bothered with all that.’

‘You mean you disapprove of conversation and discussion?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I do not know about that, but I dislike talking,’ replied Tysilia, opening the door to the refectory and ushering her guests inside. ‘I talk and listen all day with the nuns. I do not want to do it during the night, as well. I am sure you know what I mean.’

She gave him a hefty nudge with her elbow that all but winded him, but he was spared from the obligation of supplying her with an answer by Eve Wasteneys, who came forward to greet them.

The refectory was warm and comfortable, and the hum of voices and laughter indicated that Dame Martyn did not insist upon silence or Bible-reading at meals. Breakfast comprised baked eggs in addition to bread and oatmeal, and Bartholomew was certain he saw Dame Martyn slide a large piece of ham out of sight under her trencher. Ham was not an item that should have been on the breakfast table during Lent, and so she was wise to hide it from the sight of her unexpected visitors. The Prioress smiled a greeting at Bartholomew and Michael, and then raised a large cup of breakfast ale to her lips, drinking long and deep, as if she imagined she might need the fortification it provided.

‘Where is my ham?’ demanded Tysilia petulantly, as she sat down at her place. ‘It was here when I went to answer the door. Who took it?’

Dame Martyn and Eve exchanged a weary glance, and Bartholomew saw the plump, wrinkled woman who sat to one side raise her napkin to her lips so that no one would spot her smiling. Bartholomew was relieved to see her, knowing that if Matilde was sitting at the breakfast table and was amused by Tysilia’s antics, then she was not yet in any danger.

‘We do not eat ham during Lent, Tysilia,’ said Dame Martyn meaningfully. ‘You know that.’

Tysilia gazed blankly at her. ‘But it is not Lent. We were eating ham this morning, so Lent must have ended.’ Her eyes narrowed, and she pointed an accusing finger at Matilde. ‘I bet she took it. She is so fat that she ate my ham, as well as her own. I will tell my uncle about this!’

‘Have mine,’ said Dame Martyn tiredly, seeing that placating the woman was the only way to shut her up and prevent her from further insulting their paying guest. She retrieved the meat from under her trencher and passed it to Tysilia, who began to gnaw at it like a peasant, pausing only to wipe her greasy fingers on the tablecloth.

‘We start working on table manners tomorrow,’ said Eve Wasteneys flatly, watching Tysilia’s display of gluttony with disapproval. ‘One thing at a time. But what can we do for you, Brother? Have you caught Will Walcote’s killer?’

‘Not yet,’ said Michael. ‘We came to ask whether you recall any more details about these meetings. I am sure they are significant, so anything you can tell us might help.’

‘We told you all we knew yesterday,’ said Eve. ‘And we also told you that it was dark and late, and that we could not be certain about the identities of the men who came.’

‘Perhaps Tysilia can help,’ suggested Michael. ‘She is the gatekeeper, after all. She must have admitted these men to the convent when they attended these meetings.’

‘What meetings?’ asked Tysilia, speaking without closing her mouth, so that the scholars were treated to the sight of a half-chewed slab of ham. ‘I do not know about any meetings. We all went to bed early last night, because it was raining – the men tend not to come here when it is wet.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. Bartholomew saw that Matilde was having a difficult time controlling her mirth at Tysilia’s brazen revelations, and at the embarrassment of the two senior nuns as their secrets were so mercilessly exposed. ‘But I was referring to meetings that took place further back than yesterday – some of them before Christmas.’

‘I remember Christmas,’ said Tysilia brightly. ‘Dame Wasteneys took her bow and shot some duck for us to eat.’

‘Poaching on the Bishop’s land, were you?’ said Michael, raising his eyebrows in amused surprise, while Eve closed her eyes in weary resignation. ‘But never mind that. Do you recall letting any men into the convent at about that time?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Tysilia casually. ‘Lots of them, all dressed in dark cloaks and hoods, so that no one could see their faces.’

‘But did you see their faces?’ asked Michael. Bartholomew heard the sudden hope in his voice.

Tysilia nodded. ‘I could not see to their needs while they wore their hoods, could I? There was Sergeant Orwelle from the Castle; there was that silly Brother Andrew from the Carmelites, who made a nuisance of himself until he fell in the King’s Ditch and drowned – good riddance, I said; then there was Mayor Horwoode, who comes when his whore Yolande de Blaston is unavailable…’

‘That is enough!’ snapped Eve sharply, apparently deciding to act before Tysilia destroyed the reputation of every man in the town. Dame Martyn had her nose in the breakfast ale again, and seemed too horrified to intervene. Eve turned to Michael apologetically. ‘These are not the men who came to the meetings Walcote arranged.’

‘But how do you know?’ asked Michael. ‘You said they were at pains to conceal their identities from you. How can you be sure that the Mayor and Sergeant Orwelle were not among those Walcote invited to his gatherings?’

‘Because the folk Tysilia mentioned are regular attendees here, and I know who they are no matter how far they draw their hoods over their faces. But the ones who came with Walcote were not the same.’

‘Walcote’s meetings certainly did not involve that rough Sergeant Orwelle,’ offered Dame Martyn. ‘He was not the kind of person with whom Walcote had business.’

‘Believe me, you would be wise not to trust anything Tysilia dredges up from that muddy nether-world she calls her memory,’ said Eve in an undertone, regarding the novice disparagingly. ‘Her memories of yesterday are hazy, let alone from four months ago.’

‘Are you gentlemen returning to the town?’ asked Matilde in a slow, croaking voice, fiddling with the ring on her finger to indicate that she wanted to speak to them. ‘If so, I have a message to send to my kinsman. Would you be so kind as to deliver it for me?’

‘I suppose so,’ sighed Michael ungraciously. ‘Hurry up, if you want to write it. We have a great deal to do today and we cannot wait for long.’

‘I do not write,’ said Matilde, in the tone of voice that suggested she considered literacy akin to some disgusting vice. ‘I will whisper my message and you can deliver it personally.’

‘I will do no such thing,’ replied Michael haughtily, playing his part well. ‘You can mutter any message you have into the ear of my friend here. He is a physician, and much more used to the ramblings of old women than I am. He will carry your message.’

‘And God bless you, too, Brother,’ retorted Matilde as she eased herself off the bench with a great show of making it look like a painful and laborious business.

Tysilia watched her with open curiosity. ‘She is fat,’ she declared uncompromisingly. ‘Fat women are ugly, and the Death should have taken them all.’

‘Tysilia!’ exclaimed Dame Martyn, genuinely aghast. ‘You really must keep such hostile thoughts to yourself. It is not becoming.’

‘I will never be fat,’ continued Tysilia, tearing off another lump of ham with her sharp white teeth, like a carnivorous reptile. ‘Men tell me I am a goddess, with my fine slim limbs and my smooth skin.’

‘Beauty fades,’ said Eve softly. ‘And then what will you have left?’

‘My mind,’ said Tysilia proudly.

‘Is she serious?’ asked Bartholomew of Matilde, as she made her clumsy way towards him, so they could speak without being overheard.

Matilde leaned close to him, and pretended to be reciting her message. ‘I still have no idea whether she is the cleverest woman in the country or the most stupid. But I overheard Eve Wasteneys and Dame Martyn talking about those meetings this morning. I am fairly sure they are telling you the truth when they say they do not recall which other men were involved.’

‘What makes you say that?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Because they were trying very hard to remember, and they could not. I think they wanted something with which to bargain, so you would leave them alone. I am not surprised that Dame Martyn recalls nothing; she is drunk most of the time. Meanwhile, Eve is so busy trying to keep the convent from falling about her ears that she is too overwhelmed to recall things like the names of men who visited the convent months ago.’

‘But this was not months ago,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They told us last time that some of the meetings were comparatively recent.’

‘A week or ten days,’ confirmed Matilde. ‘Although the first ones were held in late November. But they came cloaked and hooded, and the nuns deliberately did not pay them too much attention, because these men clearly did not want to be identified.’

‘I bet they did not,’ said Bartholomew.

‘That is why Eve and Dame Martyn honestly do not know the identities of these people, other than the few who stand out physically – Lincolne because of his size and funny hair; Kenyngham because he had forgotten to cover his face; and Pechem because only Franciscans wear grey. Incidentally, the earlier gatherings were better attended than the more recent ones.’

‘Why? Because to be caught at one might be dangerous?’

‘The nuns do not know. They were concerned that dwindling attendance might cause Walcote to stop holding them, which would have meant the loss of four groats.’

‘Are you all right?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously. ‘Does anyone have the slightest idea as to who you are?’

‘Of course not,’ said Matilde, her eyes gleaming through her mass of painted wrinkles. ‘And I am thoroughly enjoying myself, so do not worry. Even if I were not trying to help you, Tysilia would present an interesting and amusing problem. She is the most brazen of thieves. She stole a pendant from me last night – a worthless bauble as it happens, but mine nevertheless. She took it when she thought I was asleep.’

Bartholomew was horrified, visions of Matilde being smothered with pillows or knifed as she slept rushing through his mind. ‘She wanders unsupervised at night? But she may harm you when you are least suspecting it.’

‘No,’ said Matilde with a confident smile. ‘I will lock the door tonight. She will not hurt me. But you should go now, or they will wonder what we are talking about.’

‘You say your nephew is Robin of Grantchester, Mistress Horner?’ asked Bartholomew loudly, stepping away from her. Matilde’s eyes opened wide with horrified amusement when she heard he had chosen the unsavoury town surgeon as her fictitious relative. ‘I shall see that he has your message this morning.’

Rain continued to fall heavily as Bartholomew and Michael walked back to Cambridge; by the time they arrived, they were soaked. Michael was disappointed that Matilde had nothing to report, and was not particularly comforted by the notion that Dame Martyn and Eve Wasteneys had actually been telling the truth when they said they could not recall which men had had business with Walcote. He claimed he would rather they had been lying, because then there would have been a chance of learning the identities of the men involved.

‘There is still Pechem of the Franciscans to interrogate,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Eve Wasteneys claims he was one of these mysterious midnight guests.’

‘He is visiting the Franciscan house at Denny and will not be back until tomorrow,’ said Michael with a sigh. ‘He seems to be elsewhere every time I ask for him. I wonder if that is significant. Still, unless he plans to evade me for ever, I shall run into him sooner or later.’

‘Then we should talk to Kenyngham,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He would never lie. He will tell us who the others were.’

Michael gave a hearty sigh. ‘Really, Matt. Do you think that had not occurred to me? But Kenyngham is locked away in the Gilbertine Friary, engaged in some kind of prayerful fast for Lent. He is due to finish tomorrow, but until then, the Gilbertines will not interrupt him.’

‘That sounds like Kenyngham. Now that he is relieved of his duties as Master of Michaelhouse, he can fast and pray as much as he likes.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘But it is a wretched nuisance when I need his help so urgently. I tried every way I could think of to inveigle my way into the Gilbertines’ chapel, but they were immovable. I have the feeling they regard him as a saint in the making. If it were anyone but Kenyngham, I would question such religious fervour as suspect behaviour.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘For a monk, you are remarkably intolerant of men whose lives are ruled by their religious beliefs.’

‘Everything in its place, Matt,’ replied Michael. ‘I am extremely tolerant, actually. What I am intolerant of is men who use religion to further their own ends – men like Prior Lincolne, who state that nominalism is heretical because he happens to be a realist; and men who believe they are God’s chosen, and that everything that happens occurs for their benefit.’

‘Like Timothy and Janius, you mean?’

‘Especially Janius. I like them both, but their fanaticism unnerves me. It is dangerous to believe God controls everything to the point where you think what people do is irrelevant.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘Some of my patients are the same. Sometimes I wonder whether it is just so that they will not have to make difficult decisions or come to terms with things they find painful.’

‘We could be burned in the Market Square for having this kind of conversation,’ said Michael, jabbing his friend playfully in the ribs with one of his powerful elbows. ‘To say we believe God is not directly responsible for everything that happens, and that humans have a choice, would be considered heresy by some.’

‘Only because they have not thought it through,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If everything that happens is God’s will, then we may as well abandon this investigation of yours, because anything we do is irrelevant to the outcome.’

‘Now you are going too far. Next, you will be telling me you are a nominalist.’

‘There is a great deal to recommend nominalism,’ said Bartholomew defensively. ‘Especially when you apply it to natural philosophy. For example, Heytesbury’s Regulae Solvendi Sophismata says that variations in the intensity of a velocity increase with speed, just as the redness of an apple increases with its ripeness.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, nodding. ‘Velocity, like redness, is a universal and not a particular.’

‘Exactly,’ said Bartholomew, warming to his theme. ‘So, a body, starting from rest or a particular speed, would travel a certain distance in a specific unit of time. Thus, if the same body were to move in the same interval of time with a uniform velocity equal to the speed acquired in the middle of its uniform acceleration, it would travel an equal distance.’

‘If you say so,’ said Michael, bored by the sudden delve into natural philosophy, and not making the slightest effort to follow Bartholomew’s reasoning. ‘Heytesbury worked all this out, did he?’

‘It is a very clever piece of logic. I am surprised you have never discussed it with him. There are many scholars who would love such an opportunity.’

‘I met Heytesbury only once before our encounter in Trumpington, and then we were more concerned with sizing each other up than with arguing about uniform acceleration. And I am not interested in his ideas about movement and motion anyway, only in what information I can persuade him to part with that will be to Cambridge’s advantage and the detriment of Oxford.’

‘And you accuse Janius of being single-minded,’ said Bartholomew, smiling. They reached the Barnwell Gate, and nodded to Sergeant Orwelle as they passed through. Seeing a familiar figure nearby, Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm and pulled him into the shadows of the guardhouse. ‘Speaking of Heytesbury, there he is. What is he doing?’

‘He is with Prior Morden of the Dominicans,’ said Michael, watching the two men, who were talking earnestly under the shelter of the west door of Holy Trinity Church. ‘I wonder what could draw those two together.’

‘Nominalism, probably,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As I have just told you, there are many scholars who would love an opportunity to cross intellectual swords with Heytesbury. Morden is doubtless one of them.’

‘Morden is a decent administrator, and rules the Dominicans well enough,’ said Michael. ‘But he is scarcely one of our most astute thinkers. Have you noticed that is often the case? You have only to look at Michaelhouse to see that we have fared better under someone who is good at organisation but weak on wits.’

‘You approve of what Langelee has done?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘I thought you were still angry with him for ruining your own chances of becoming Master.’

‘I am,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘And I, of course, would prove that it is possible to have a brilliant mind and run an efficient College. But I admit Langelee is doing better than I imagined, and he is very tolerant of my duties as Senior Proctor. He allows me whatever freedom I need, and never asks me to explain my absences.’

‘Perhaps he did you a favour, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘At the next election, you will inherit a College that is in much better condition than the one he took over.’

Michael smiled. ‘True. But we should not linger here reviewing my career. I wish I knew what Heytesbury and Morden are discussing.’

‘It is nothing of relevance to you, your negotiations with Oxford, or your investigation, Brother,’ came a rather sibilant voice from behind them. Bartholomew almost leapt out of his skin, unaware that anyone had been close enough to hear what they had been saying. Michael merely smiled as he recognised the smooth black hair and twinkling blue eyes of Brother Janius.

‘Have you been listening to Heytesbury and Morden?’ he asked.

Janius nodded. ‘Now that God has seen fit to appoint Brother Timothy as Junior Proctor, all us Benedictines feel obliged to be watchful, so that we can gather information that you may find helpful in your duties. That is why God appointed Timothy – because He knew he would make a good and honest servant for the University.’

‘But it was I who appointed Timothy,’ said Michael. ‘God had no feelings on the matter one way or another.’

‘How do you know?’ flashed Janius, anger flashing briefly in his blue eyes. ‘God is all powerful, and determines every aspect of our lives.’

‘Then tell me what He permitted you to overhear of the conversation between Morden and Heytesbury,’ said Michael, apparently deciding that argument was futile in the face of such rigid conviction.

Janius brought his ire under control, and the serene expression returned to his pale face. ‘I was praying in Holy Trinity Church – God drew me there, so that is how I know He wanted me to eavesdrop on the discussion – and I heard Morden inviting Heytesbury to the Dominican Friary next week for a private discussion about nominalism.’

‘Is that it?’ asked Michael disappointed. ‘That is rather mundane.’

‘Not for the Dominicans,’ replied Janius. ‘They consider it a great honour, and plan to have a feast to celebrate the occasion. I wonder whether Heytesbury might consider coming to visit the Benedictines of Ely Hall. We will not be able to fête him in the same lavish way as will the Dominicans, but we can offer stimulating conversation and keen minds.’

‘Then do not invite me, please,’ said Michael. ‘I cannot think of a more tedious way to spend an evening. Matt has just been telling me all about accelerating bodies and uniform velocity, and I have no desire to hear any more of it.’

Janius smiled at Bartholomew. ‘I have heard your lectures on the physical universe are complex and not for novices. Were you telling Michael about Heytesbury’s mean speed theorem?’

Bartholomew nodded enthusiastically. ‘And just four years ago, Nicole Oresme devised a geometrical proof for the intension and remission of qualities based on Heytesbury’s–’

‘You mentioned yesterday that you planned to attend Faricius’s requiem mass, Janius,’ interrupted Michael loudly, deciding he had heard enough of nominalism as applied to the laws of physics for one day. ‘Did you go? Can I assume that your presence here means that it is over?’

‘It was over at midday, and the afternoon has been spent in private prayer for his soul,’ Janius told him. ‘That was why I was in Holy Trinity Church. But he is due to be buried about now, and I was on my way back there when I met you.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘I want to talk to the Carmelites, and if they are all gathered together at Faricius’s mass, I will not have to hunt them down individually.’

‘You would not have to do that anyway,’ said Janius. ‘Since Faricius’s murder, most of the Orders are keeping their students inside. No one wants a retaliatory killing.’

‘There are those that would disagree,’ said Michael. ‘But it is cold standing here. Let us be on our way to this burial. Such an occasion will suit my mood perfectly.’