An Order for Death

Chapter 6

FARICIUS’S REQUIEM MASS HAD BEEN A GRAND AFFAIR. Prayers for him had been said in the church all afternoon, and the rough wooden coffin was being carried back to the friary, where there was a small graveyard in the grounds near the river. Bartholomew and Michael joined the end of the procession, which comprised mainly White Friars, but also a smattering of scholars from other hostels and colleges who had met Faricius and been impressed by his scholarship. Both Timothy and Janius were among the mourners, as was Heytesbury, although he at least had the good sense to keep his face hidden in a voluminous hood.

‘What are you doing here?’ Michael asked the Merton man in a soft whisper. ‘A procession of realism-obsessed Carmelites is no place for the country’s leading thinker on nominalism. Are you mad?’

‘No such restrictions apply in Oxford,’ replied Heytesbury testily. ‘And I met Faricius once. I had the greatest respect for him, and wanted to persuade him to study with me at Merton.’

‘I doubt he would have taken a nominalist master,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Have you not heard how the Orders have ranged themselves around this debate? The Carmelites have decided that realism is the ultimate truth.’

‘Why should that make any difference?’ demanded Heytesbury. ‘The great nominalist William of Occam was a student of the equally great realist Duns Scotus. Faricius had an excellent mind, and I would have welcomed the opportunity to help him hone it, no matter what his beliefs.’

Bartholomew gazed at him, and wondered whether Oxford was really so different from her sister university. In his own experience, Oxford scholars were every bit as belligerent and aggressive as those in Cambridge, and just as prepared to prove their academic points with their fists. But given the strength of the feelings the debate seemed to have engendered that Lent, he could not imagine a Cambridge nominalist being willing to train a realist student, who in time might use that training against him and the beliefs he held dear. He wondered whether Heytesbury was a man of integrity who was devoted to scholarship in all its forms, or simply a fool.

The sombre procession passed in silence through the Carmelites’ orchard and into the small plot of land that had been reserved for burials. It was a pleasant place, sheltered by chestnut trees and overlooking the water meadows that stretched away to the small hamlet of Newnham Croft. Several grassy mounds already graced the area, along with a sizeable knoll that Bartholomew knew was where the friary’s plague victims had been laid to rest.

Under a spreading cedar tree was one of the town’s curiosities. In 1290, a man named Humphrey de Lecton had been the first Carmelite to take a doctor’s degree in Cambridge, and later became the first Carmelite to lecture for the University. When he died, he had been buried with some pomp and ceremony, and his grave was marked with an impressive piece of masonry: a disconcertingly realistic coffin with a likeness of Lecton etched into the top, covered by a four-pillared canopy that had once been painted. Wind and rain had stripped it of its colours, but the tomb still dominated the Carmelites’ peaceful burial ground.

A rectangular hole had been prepared for Faricius near Lecton’s monument, with a mound of excavated mud piled to one side. Water had collected in the bottom of the grave, and the coffin landed with a slight splash as it was lowered inside. Rain pattered on the wood and on the bowed heads of those who gathered around as Lincolne said his final words. Bartholomew saw Horneby standing next to his Prior, scrubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his habit; the expression on his face was a mixture of anger and grief. Lincolne’s peculiar turret of hair had escaped from under his cowl, and rose vertically from his forehead. Droplets of rain caught in it, so that it glittered in the dull light of the gloomy March afternoon.

‘The Dominicans will pay for this,’ Bartholomew heard Horneby mutter.

‘Faricius was a peaceful man who abhorred violence,’ said Brother Timothy gently. ‘He would not have wanted his friends to indulge themselves in a rampage of hatred on his behalf.’

‘He would not have wanted the Dominicans to murder him and then laugh about it,’ snapped Horneby. ‘They are in their friary celebrating what they have done. Look! They have even sent one of their number to observe his funeral and then report the details back to them.’

All eyes followed his accusing finger, and Michael was astonished to find himself the object of their scrutiny.

‘I am not Dominican,’ he said, aggrieved, pushing back his cowl to reveal his face. ‘I am a Benedictine, as well you know.’

‘Oh, it is you, Brother Michael,’ said Lincolne. ‘In this poor light it is difficult to tell Dominicans from Benedictines. Both wear black cloaks.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Michael brusquely. ‘Anyone with the merest glimmer of sense can tell a mendicant from a monastic. I am a monk, not a friar.’

‘One look at his girth should tell you that,’ Bartholomew thought he heard Heytesbury mutter. ‘Only Benedictines grow to such a size.’

‘Have you come to tell us that you have arrested Faricius’s killer?’ asked Lincolne, in a tone of voice that suggested he did not think they had. ‘It would be a fitting tribute at his funeral.’

‘I have come to ask more questions,’ said Michael. ‘But I am a good deal wiser about this case now than I was yesterday. The truth will prevail, have no doubt about that.’

Bartholomew hoped the monk’s confidence would not turn out to be a hollow brag. As far as he could see, they were even further from an answer, because all they had learned indicated that there was more to Faricius’s death than they had first thought.

Lincolne did not look as if he believed it, either. He turned to the watching mourners with a few words of dismissal. ‘Thank you for coming. It is gratifying to see that a Carmelite commanded such respect among so many people.’

The mourners began to move away in respectful silence. Heytesbury and Janius went with them, so that soon only Lincolne, Bartholomew, Michael and Timothy remained under the cedar tree. Horneby and several of his friends worked nearby, shovelling sodden earth that landed with hollow thumps on top of Faricius’s coffin. Horneby’s face was wet, although from the rain or from bitter tears, Bartholomew could not tell.

‘The proctors have more questions to ask!’ the student-friar jeered, shovelling hard at the earth. ‘There have been more than enough of those already. What we want now are answers.’

‘I would not need to ask more questions if you had told the truth,’ snapped Michael, rounding on him. ‘How can you expect me to catch your friend’s killer when you were dishonest with me?’

‘I was not–’ began Horneby, startled by the attack.

‘You told me it was impossible for Faricius to have left the friary, and yet he was found dead outside,’ Michael continued relentlessly.

‘I only said–’ attempted Horneby.

Michael cut through his words. ‘You are a fool, Horneby. I will find out what happened to Faricius, and I will discover how and why he happened to be outside when the rest of you were in here. But, by not telling me the truth, you are running the risk that the culprit may have fled the town before I uncover him. Is that what you want?’

‘No! Of course not. But–’

‘Then tell me what you know,’ said Michael, in full interrogatory mode. Even Bartholomew felt intimidated by the flashing green eyes and the unwavering gaze. A mere novice like Horneby was helpless under the monk’s onslaught.

‘Nothing,’ stammered Horneby, casting an agonised glance at Lincolne that would have told even the most inexperienced investigator that he was lying.

‘Why was Faricius out?’ repeated Michael. He appealed to Lincolne. ‘Are we to stand here all day waiting for this half-wit to speak? Instruct him to answer me immediately, before any more time is wasted on his petty deceits.’

‘You had better tell him what you know, Horneby,’ said Lincolne tiredly.

‘But we decided to keep it a secret,’ wailed Horneby miserably, looking at his fellows, who seemed as unhappy as he did.

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Lincolne, bemused. ‘Keep what a secret?’

‘About Faricius,’ said Horneby. ‘What he was doing had no bearing on his death, and we decided it was better the secret died with him. There was no point in telling the Senior Proctor.’

‘Worse yet, it will lead the investigation in the wrong direction,’ said one of the others, appealing to his Prior. ‘It is entirely irrelevant, and we decided Brother Michael would have a better chance of catching the killer if the waters were not muddied by what we know.’

‘What is it?’ demanded Michael. ‘I am quite capable of deciding what is and what is not relevant to a murder investigation. I was solving crimes such as this while you were still mewling and puking on your mothers’ knees.’

That was not strictly true. Michael had held his appointment as Proctor only since the plague, although he had been an agent of the Bishop of Ely before that.

‘What is all this about?’ demanded Lincolne, growing impatient. ‘What are you not telling Brother Michael?’

‘There is a tunnel,’ said Horneby unhappily. ‘It allows us to come and go as we please. Of course, we use it very rarely,’ he added when he saw Lincolne’s jaw drop in horror.

‘A tunnel?’ demanded Lincolne, appalled. ‘What do you think this is? Some dungeon where prisoners must dig for their freedom?’

‘We did not make it,’ said Horneby defensively. ‘It has been here for hundreds of years – ever since our Order moved to Cambridge, in fact.’

‘That was in 1290,’ Timothy pointed out pedantically. ‘The Carmelites were granted land in Milne Street in 1290 by the Archdeacon of York, which is why Humphrey de Lecton was buried here. It was certainly not hundreds of years ago.’

‘Well, it has been here a long time,’ said Horneby, dismissive of such details. ‘Each year, new students are shown the tunnel, then made to swear an oath that they will never tell anyone about it. The masters are never informed.’

‘Why did you not mention this before?’ demanded Michael angrily. ‘You must see that this has a bearing on our enquiries. It explains how Faricius left the friary without using the gates.’

Horneby cast a nervous glance at his Prior. ‘No masters are ever told, and you have always questioned us when Prior Lincolne was present. And anyway, Walcote knew about it. We assumed he would tell you.’

‘Walcote is dead,’ said Michael harshly. ‘And why are you so sure that he knew, anyway?’

‘He caught Simon Lynne using it a few days ago,’ replied Horneby reluctantly. ‘He was furious, and ordered us to close up the entrance immediately. He said he would return in a week, and if it were not blocked, he would report all of us to Prior Lincolne.’

‘And I assume he did not?’ asked Michael.

‘He died,’ explained Horneby. ‘The week expired today. We were going to obey him, but when we learned he was dead, we saw we would not have to. You clearly did not know about it, or you would have guessed how Faricius left the friary on the day he was murdered. Walcote was as good as his word when he promised to tell no one if we did as he ordered.’

‘That is outrageous!’ exploded Lincolne, his topknot trembling with anger. ‘Such a tunnel is a breach in our security, and it was extremely foolish of you to keep it from me.’

‘But we have not always been at loggerheads with our rival Orders,’ Horneby pointed out. ‘It is only a security problem if we are under attack, and that has not happened until recently.’

Lincolne favoured him with an icy glare. ‘Perhaps that is so during the few months that you have graced us with your presence. But in past years there have been nasty incidents – perhaps not with other Orders, but with the Colleges and the hostels – where such a tunnel might have been very dangerous for us. Where is the damned thing, anyway?’

Horneby walked to the tomb of Humphrey de Lecton and pulled back a nearby tree branch to reveal a sinister black slit.

‘Here it is. You slide through this hole, make your way forward on your hands and knees for about the length of a man, then a short tunnel leads to the garden of the house next door. You climb the wall, which is lower than ours and easier to scale, and you are in Milne Street.’

‘I could not fit down that,’ said Michael, eyeing it doubtfully.

‘No,’ agreed Horneby, looking him up and down. ‘It would be much too tight for you. But most of us students have done it at various times.’

‘Why?’ demanded Lincolne. ‘What would you leave the friary for?’

Horneby had the grace to look sheepish, and one of the younger novices was unable to prevent a nervous giggle escaping from his lips. Lincolne glowered at him, and the boy shrank backwards in abject embarrassment.

‘To do what most young men do of a night, I imagine,’ said Michael, seeing that none of the student-friars were prepared to furnish their Prior with an honest answer. ‘The taverns and the town’s women are an enticing proposition compared to an evening seated in a cold conclave with someone reading from the Bible.’

‘But that is against the University’s rules,’ cried Lincolne, appalled.

‘Yes,’ said Michael dryly. ‘So, I recommend that you seal up this hole before any more of your students clamber through it and pay the price. But you still have not answered my original question, Horneby. I want to know what Faricius was doing outside the walls, not how he got there.’

Horneby exchanged more glances with his fellows, some of whom Bartholomew saw were shaking their heads, warning him not to tell. Michael saw them, too.

‘Enough of this!’ he snapped angrily. ‘Faricius is dead. He was stabbed in the stomach and he bled to death with no priest present to give him spiritual comfort. It was a brutal, violent end for a man you say was gentle and peace-loving. If his memory means anything at all to you, you will tell me why he happened to be outside at the wrong time.’

‘Was it a woman?’ asked Lincolne, more gently. ‘It seems that is the main reason most of you slip away from your duties and obligations.’ His eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. ‘It is not that Tysilia, is it? I warned you all about her, after what happened to Brother Andrew.’

‘Do you mean the Brother Andrew who drowned himself in the King’s Ditch just before Christmas?’ asked Timothy curiously.

‘Yes,’ said Lincolne. ‘Tysilia stole his heart and then refused to see him. We told people his humours had been unbalanced and that he was ill when he took his own life – which was certainly true after he had encountered that witch.’

‘Faricius was not seeing a woman,’ said Horneby. ‘Not even Tysilia. We all kept our distance from her, just as you ordered, Father.’ He smiled ingratiatingly.

‘Do not think that obeying him over this one woman redeems you,’ said Michael, seeing that Lincolne was vaguely mollified by Horneby’s claim. ‘Personally, I do not believe it should be necessary for a Prior to issue such a warning to men of the cloth.’

‘Do not be so pompous, Brother,’ muttered Bartholomew in Michael’s ear. ‘The chances are that some of your own escapades with women are known around the town. You will look foolish if they challenge your right to ask such questions.’

Michael ignored him. ‘And do not try to change the subject, Horneby. I want to know why Faricius left the friary.’

‘He was writing an essay,’ said Horneby reluctantly.

‘An essay?’ echoed Michael, surprise taking the anger from his voice.

Horneby shot an apologetic glance at Lincolne. ‘I am sorry, Father, but Faricius’s essay was in defence of nominalism and supported the controversial theories of the Oxford philosopher William Heytesbury. Faricius was a nominalist.’

‘An essay on nominalism?’ asked Michael, looking around the assembled scholars in wary disbelief. ‘Is that what this great secret is? Is that why Faricius risked life and limb to go outside when it was obvious he should have remained here?’

Horneby nodded unhappily, while the other students shook their heads in disgust that Horneby had betrayed their dead colleague’s trust.

‘Faricius was a nominalist?’ whispered Lincolne, aghast. ‘If only I had known! I could have used my powers of reason to show him that he was wrong, and that nominalism is heresy.’

‘No,’ said Horneby. ‘He was quite certain of his beliefs and he argued them convincingly. You would not have dissuaded him. We all tried and were unsuccessful.’

Michael scratched his chin, a puzzled frown creasing his fat features. ‘Nominalism is a complex theory. I cannot see that a mere novice would provide us with any new insights, and so I fail to see why this essay is important.’

‘Faricius could have provided you with new insights,’ argued Horneby. ‘He had a brilliant mind, and spent a good deal of time honing his debating skills. We were proud of him, but afraid for him at the same time.’

Bartholomew suspected that Horneby was right. Walcote, Timothy and Janius had all claimed to admire Faricius’s thinking, while the great William Heytesbury had even offered to take him as a student. A man like Heytesbury could choose any scholar he wanted, and that he was interested in Faricius was revealing. Bartholomew realised that Horneby and his cronies were not the only ones who had maintained their silence about Faricius’s beliefs: Heytesbury had also declined to enlighten Michael with what he knew of the Carmelite friar murdered at around the time he had arrived in Cambridge himself.

‘And all of you knew about Faricius’s philosophical leanings?’ asked Michael, looking around at the other students. They nodded reluctantly, casting guilty glances at each other.

‘Yes,’ said Horneby. ‘But he talked to other scholars in the University known to support nominalism, too, so that he could learn from them.’

‘Such as whom?’ demanded Michael.

‘I cannot remember precisely,’ said Horneby, a little testily. ‘Half the town believes in nominalism, so he was not exactly strapped for choice.’

‘Henry de Kyrkeby, the Dominican precentor, is due to give the University Lecture on nominalism,’ suggested another student, more helpfully. ‘I think Faricius waylaid him and discussed his ideas once. Then there is Father Paul of the Franciscans, who is a tolerant and kindly man. And I saw Faricius in deep discussion with your Junior Proctor on several occasions.’

‘Brother Timothy?’ asked Michael, regarding doubtfully the Benedictine who stood behind him. ‘You have not mentioned this before.’

‘My discussions with him were of a more general nature,’ said Timothy, surprised by the student’s assertion. ‘We did not talk about nominalism.’

‘Not Timothy, the other one. Will Walcote,’ said the student.

‘Unfortunately, Will Walcote is dead,’ said Michael. ‘I do recall him saying that he had met Faricius, however, and so I know you are telling the truth on that score. Who else?’

‘I cannot remember,’ said Horneby again. ‘It was not something he discussed with us. He knew we did not agree with his ideas, and so he tended not to tell us about them.’

‘Where is this essay now?’ demanded Lincolne, still angry. ‘And what do you think it had to do with his death?’

‘Quite,’ said Michael. ‘I am no nominalist myself, and I appreciate why many people find its tenets heretical. But I cannot see why writing about it should result in anyone’s demise.’

‘I disagree,’ said Lincolne. ‘Nominalism poses one of the greatest threats to our Church and our society since the pestilence. It causes people to question basic truths like the manner of the creation and the nature of God. It is dangerous, and I will have none of it in my friary.’

‘Because we all know you feel that way, Faricius could not keep his essay here,’ explained Horneby to his Prior. ‘He always left it in a crevice in the wall that surrounds the Church of St John Zachary. When he heard that the Dominicans were coming, he went to fetch it.’

‘Did you see this essay when you found him?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew.

The physician shook his head, but thought about Faricius’s desperation when he had learned that his scrip was missing. Bartholomew had been wrong. Faricius had not been delirious or confused about which of his scrips he had carried, and it had not been the ruby ring that he had been thinking about: his scrip must have contained his precious essay.

‘I suppose this means he was killed on his way to fetch the thing,’ surmised Michael.

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Given his frantic desperation when he learned his scrip was missing, I think it more likely that he had collected the essay and was on his way home with it.’

‘You had better show me this hiding place in the churchyard of St John Zachary, Horneby,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘It is possible that the essay – or a copy – is still there.’

‘Lynne and I have already looked,’ said Horneby, exchanging a glance with his friends. ‘We went on Monday night – we did use the tunnel, before you ask – but it had gone. The stone had been replaced in the wall, and the branches of the nearby bush arranged to hide evidence of chipped mortar. Faricius always did that. I suppose he intended to use it again once the riot was over.’

Michael sighed. ‘What a mess! I wish you had told me all this before. It might have saved a good deal of time.’

The students hung their heads, and none would meet the eyes of their Prior, who glowered at them in silent fury. Bartholomew could not decide whether Lincolne’s anger was directed at them for keeping secrets and delaying Michael’s investigation, or whether he was merely indignant that they had helped to harbour a heretic in their midst.

So, had Faricius’s controversial essay brought about his death? Recalling his horror when he learned that his scrip had been stolen, Bartholomew was certain it had played some role. Faricius had been so concerned about its loss that he had even failed to reveal the identity of the person or people who had stabbed him. Bartholomew supposed it was possible that the killers were men Faricius had not known, although if the essay were at the heart of the matter, that seemed unlikely.

As far as the physician could see, there were two possible explanations for why Faricius had died. First, he might have been murdered by a realist, who was afraid that a clever thinker like Faricius would promote the cause of nominalism to the detriment of realism. If this were true, then it was likely that Faricius’s killer was a Carmelite. Had one of his colleagues killed him, to protect the theory that the Carmelite Order had chosen to champion? Bartholomew gazed at Horneby and his friends, and wondered whether one of them still knew more than he had told. But Horneby suggested that Faricius had talked to lots of people, including the missing Dominican Precentor, about his affinity with nominalism. Was Kyrkeby’s absence related to Faricius’s murder? Had Kyrkeby committed the crime, then fled the town? But Kyrkeby was Bartholomew’s patient, and the physician knew Kyrkeby’s weak heart would not have permitted him to engage in a violent struggle with a young and healthy man. Yet how fit did one need to be to slide a sharp knife into someone’s stomach?

The second possibility was that the killer knew an essay was in the making, but had made the assumption that it was in support of realism: because Faricius was a Carmelite, it was not unreasonable to assume that he had followed his Order’s teaching. Therefore, the suspects were the nominalists, who would not want a brilliant essay in defence of realism circulating the town. Faricius’s killer could therefore be a Dominican or someone who was a professed nominalist – like Walcote, for example.

‘You should block this tunnel as soon as possible,’ Michael advised Lincolne, as he moved away from the graveyard and began to head towards the front gate. His voice brought Bartholomew out of his reverie, who realised he was cold, wet, tired and ready for his dinner. ‘It is too dangerous to leave as it is, given that you have this silly feud with the Dominicans.’

One of the students had lit a lamp, and Lincolne took it from him to inspect the dark entrance to the tunnel, shaking his head in disapproval and casting angry glances at his charges. He leaned forward and put his hand inside it, poking at the damp earth and announcing that the structure was unstable and that his students were lucky it had not collapsed on them. Suddenly, Horneby released a piercing cry of horror that made everyone jump. Bartholomew spun around to look back at him.

‘What is wrong with the boy?’ Michael whispered testily, his hand on his heart. ‘Has he seen a dead worm? Or worse, has he found Faricius’s “heretical” essay?’

‘Brother! Come quickly!’ cried Lincolne in a wavering, unsteady voice, as his students clustered around him to see what had so distressed Horneby.

Michael elbowed them out of the way and craned forward to where the lamp illuminated the inside of the tunnel. Meanwhile, Horneby held a black leather shoe in his hand. Bartholomew peered over Michael’s shoulder, and saw that the shoe had been pulled from a foot that lay white and bare just beyond the entrance of the tunnel. He reached in and touched it, trying to determine whether it belonged to someone he could help, but it was unnaturally cold and still.

‘Well?’ asked Michael in a low voice. ‘Is he alive?’

‘I think you have another death to investigate, Brother,’ said Bartholomew softly, so that only Michael could hear. ‘I suspect Horneby has just located the missing Henry de Kyrkeby.’

‘What in God’s name is it?’ wailed Prior Lincolne, as Bartholomew reached down inside the tunnel and tried to secure a grip on the white-soled foot. ‘It looks like a corpse!’

‘It is a corpse,’ snapped Michael impatiently. ‘And judging from the bit of black habit that I can see, and the fact that the shoe you are holding is made of the black-dyed leather favoured by the Dominicans, I would guess that this is one of them.’

‘A Dominican?’ squeaked Lincolne in alarm. ‘Who? One of the louts who murdered Faricius, and who then decided he had a taste for Carmelite blood and was on his way to claim more of it?’

‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Michael. ‘The body is wet, and looks to me to have been here for some time. Given that we have only one missing Dominican, I imagine this is Henry de Kyrkeby.’

‘Kyrkeby?’ shrieked Lincolne in agitation. ‘But what is he doing in our tunnel? Was he trying to leave? Or was he trying to come in?’

Bartholomew began to pull on Kyrkeby’s foot, and succeeded in freeing one leg. But the body was stuck fast, as if something was pinning it inside its gloomy resting place.

‘Or has someone just used the tunnel as a convenient place to hide his corpse?’ mused Michael, looking away from the body and studying the faces of the Carmelite students who stood in an uncertain circle around him. The dull grey light made their expressions difficult to read.

‘But why would anyone do that?’ cried Lincolne. ‘We Carmelites are not in the business of hiding the corpses of members of rival Orders in dirty holes in the ground!’

‘Neither are most people,’ said Michael. ‘But you have not taken into account the possibility that whoever hid Kyrkeby’s body might also have killed him.’

He gazed at the student-friars a second time, but could gauge nothing from their reactions. The younger lads seemed frightened by the sudden appearance of death in their midst, while the faces of the older students, like Horneby, were virtually expressionless, and the monk could not tell what they thought about the fact that the Dominican Precentor was dead in their graveyard.

‘I cannot get him out,’ muttered Bartholomew, as he knelt next to the tunnel. ‘He is stuck.’

‘No one killed him,’ said Lincolne uncertainly, ignoring Bartholomew as, like Michael, he began looking around at his assembled scholars, as if not absolutely certain that he could make such a claim.

‘Is that true?’ demanded Michael of Bartholomew. ‘Has Kyrkeby been murdered, or did he die in the tunnel by accident or from natural causes?’

Bartholomew pointed to the white leg that protruded obscenely from the dirty hole. ‘How can I tell that from a foot, Brother? I need to look at the whole body.’

‘Hurry up, then,’ ordered Michael, oblivious or uncaring of the weary look Bartholomew shot him. ‘If Kyrkeby has been murdered, I want to know as soon as possible.’ The expression on his face made it clear that he would start looking for suspects among the Carmelites.

‘But why would any of us kill him?’ asked Lincolne, in what Bartholomew imagined he thought were reasonable tones.

‘Because someone murdered Faricius, and many of you believe that a Dominican was responsible,’ replied Michael promptly. ‘Or perhaps because one of you caught him trespassing on Carmelite property, and decided to kill him before he reported to his Prior all that he had learned from his illicit visit.’

‘What could he report, Brother?’ asked Lincolne in the same measured voice. ‘You are assuming that we have something to hide. We do not.’

‘But you do,’ Michael pointed out. ‘For a start, your students had very successfully hidden the fact that Faricius was writing an essay in defence of nominalism.’

‘No!’ objected Lincolne. ‘That was different–’

‘It was not,’ interrupted Michael brusquely. ‘And secondly, you have only just been told about this tunnel that is supposed to have been here for years. Perhaps Kyrkeby found it, and someone was afraid that if he told his brother Dominicans, you Carmelites would be vulnerable to attack.’

‘None of my students would kill for such paltry reasons,’ said Lincolne, although he continued to glance uneasily at his charges.

‘No?’ asked Michael. ‘Then perhaps there are other reasons why someone here would want Kyrkeby dead. I have just seen two nasty secrets surface in the last few moments – three if we can count the presence of an extra corpse in the tomb of the illustrious Humphrey de Lecton – so perhaps there are yet more for me to uncover.’

Lincolne was finally silent.

‘I really cannot move him,’ said Bartholomew, in the brief lull in the accusations and counter-accusations. ‘I cannot seem to get a good grip. His skin is too slippery.’

‘We did not kill him,’ said Horneby, taking up the defence of his Order where his Prior had left off. Neither he nor anyone else took any notice of Bartholomew, more interested in convincing Michael of their innocence than in retrieving the body that lay in the hole. ‘We have no idea how he came to be here. I swear it.’

‘And who do you mean by “we” exactly?’ asked Michael archly. ‘You Carmelites have at least thirty student-friars. Do you speak for them all? What about the masters? How can you know that no one has taken matters into his own hands and avenged Faricius by killing a Dominican?’

Horneby shook his head slowly. ‘How can we have killed him? We have all been confined to the convent since Faricius was murdered. No one has left except to go to church, and then Prior Lincolne was watching us.’

‘That is true,’ said Lincolne.

‘No,’ said Timothy softly. ‘That is not true. Horneby just told us that he and Simon Lynne went to look for Faricius’s essay in the Church of St John Zachary on Monday. Obviously that was after Faricius had died, and so Horneby is lying when he says no one went out.’

‘And we saw a whole pack of you lurking outside the Dominican Friary on Sunday intent on mischief,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘We followed you home, remember?’

Michael indicated the tunnel. ‘Anyone could have slipped through this whenever he liked. You cannot prove otherwise.’

‘However, no one would have been using it as long as Kyrkeby was here,’ said Bartholomew, turning his attention back to the body. ‘He is blocking it completely. And he will remain blocking it unless someone helps me. I cannot move him on my own.’

‘A visit to St John Zachary counts as going to church,’ said Horneby insolently. ‘We just made a slight detour for a few moments to check Faricius’s hiding place.’

‘And what about your sally to the Dominican Friary?’ asked Michael coolly. ‘Does that count as going to church, too?’

Horneby sneered. ‘We were only there for a short while. It was not worth mentioning.’

‘I will help you, Matthew,’ said Timothy, crouching next to Bartholomew and reaching into the hole to grab a handful of Kyrkeby’s habit. His face was pale and his hands unsteady, and the physician saw yet again that dealing with corpses would not be part of a Junior Proctor’s obligations that Timothy would enjoy.

‘It is all right,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting Timothy to do something that so obviously unsettled him. ‘I can probably manage.’

Timothy gave a wan smile. ‘You cannot. And no one else seems willing to assist.’

‘When was the last time any of you used the tunnel?’ asked Michael, glancing briefly at Bartholomew’s struggle with Kyrkeby before returning to the more interesting matter of interrogating the Carmelites.

‘Last Saturday,’ replied Horneby immediately. ‘It was used just before the riot in which those evil Dominicans murdered Faricius.’

‘Horneby, Horneby,’ said Lincolne, pretending to be shocked by his student’s accusation, even though he had made the same ones several times himself. ‘That attitude will get us nowhere. What will Brother Michael think when he hears words like that?’

‘He will think that you decided to avenge Faricius’s death and kill yourself a Dominican,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Even the most dull-witted of you must see that this is how it appears. And this sudden display of quiet reason does you no good, Prior Lincolne. Until a few moments ago, you, too, were claiming that Dominicans murdered Faricius.’

‘That was then,’ said Lincolne, unabashed. ‘We were the wronged party. But now it will look as though we took justice into our own hands, and I can assure you we did not. If we are not careful, the Dominicans will march on us again, and more people might die.’ He looked alarmed as a sudden thought crossed his mind. ‘And they may even damage the friary!’

‘Then we shall have to ensure that both Orders behave themselves,’ said Michael. ‘You are not the only one who does not want more bloodshed.’

‘The Dominicans will not be so amenable,’ said Lincolne bitterly. ‘They will deny murdering Faricius and demand another death to pay for Kyrkeby. They may even secure the help of the Austin canons and the Benedictines, who seem to be on friendly terms with them at the moment.’

‘But then we will call upon the Franciscans and the Gilbertines, who are not,’ said Horneby defiantly. ‘We can raise an army that will match the one any Dominicans can muster.’

Bartholomew glanced up in alarm as Horneby’s friends began to voice their agreement in voices that were a combination of fearful and defensive. Michael watched the proceedings with his arms folded and an expression of distaste on his face. Timothy abandoned his attempts to help Bartholomew extract Kyrkeby, and stood, brushing the dirt from his hands.

‘Have any of you heard of the Ten Commandments?’ he asked, his quiet question cutting across the babble that was centred around Horneby.

Lincolne regarded him uncertainly. ‘What have they to do with any of this?’

‘Just the fact that one of them forbids killing,’ said Timothy. ‘You are men of God, and yet here you are discussing how to raise armies to attack your rival Orders. You should be ashamed of yourselves. You are supposed to be setting a good example to the townsfolk, not demonstrating how to form armies and instigate street fights.’

‘The Dominicans started it,’ began Horneby hotly.

‘You do not know that for certain,’ said Michael. ‘And we will have no more of this talk of fighting. Is that clear?’

He glowered at each and every one of them until he was satisfied that they had acquiesced to his demand. Then he took a deep breath and resumed his questioning.

‘Now, we were discussing Kyrkeby’s death. I had just asked when the tunnel was last used. Horneby informed me with great conviction that no one has used the tunnel since Saturday. However, before that he admitted to using it with Lynne – on Monday – to see whether he could find Faricius’s essay. So, I will have the truth, if you please. When did anyone last use the tunnel?’

Horneby flushed a deep red, and had the grace to appear sheepish. ‘Lynne and I did use it on Monday night,’ he said in a low whisper. ‘But no one has used it since. I am sure of it.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘The next question that springs to mind is why are you so sure?’

‘Two very good reasons,’ said Horneby. ‘First, none of us wanted to be caught by the proctors, who we knew were keeping an eye on it. And second, none of us have had any desire to be out on streets teeming with hostile Dominicans.’

‘How do you know that applies to everyone here?’ pressed Michael. ‘Can you account for the movements of thirty students every single moment of the last few days?’

No one could answer him, although Lincolne blustered that his students should be given the benefit of the doubt, conveniently forgetting that they had lied to him as well as to Michael.

‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew, as the habit he was tugging on ripped in his hands. ‘This is impossible. We need a spade.’

‘A spade?’ asked Lincolne, horrified. ‘Are you suggesting that we excavate poor Humphrey de Lecton’s grave?’

‘Do you have any other suggestions?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Kyrkeby’s body is wedged very firmly inside it. I cannot work out whether someone rammed him down there with such force that he is stuck, or whether the tunnel has suffered some sort of collapse.’

‘I do not see why it should have collapsed if it has been here since 1290,’ said Michael. ‘I think it would be a peculiar coincidence if it stood whole and safe for so long, and only fell the moment a Dominican set foot in it.’

‘It is Humphrey de Lecton protecting us,’ said Horneby suddenly, his voice low and awed. ‘He saw that we were about to be invaded by a Dominican, and he caused the tunnel roof to collapse in order to save us!’

The Carmelites crossed themselves as Horneby made his pronouncement, and one or two of them dropped to their knees in a gesture of reverence. It was almost dark, and the curfew bells were beginning to toll, lending the graveyard an eerie atmosphere. Among the student-friars, a growing murmur that featured the word ‘miracle’ could be heard.

‘Oh, Lord, Matt!’ breathed Michael wearily. ‘This situation is going from bad to worse. As soon as I prevent them from following one wild belief, they simply come up with another. I always knew friars were not of the same intellectual calibre as monks, but this is ridiculous!’

‘We need to nip this one in the bud fairly quickly,’ said Timothy urgently. ‘The Dominicans will not sit by quietly while the Carmelites claim one of them was killed by divine intervention.’

‘Let us not jump to rash conclusions,’ said Michael loudly, silencing the reverent whispers that filled the dark graveyard. ‘As my colleague said, the body is stuck. There is nothing mysterious about a body stuck in a hole.’

‘Humphrey de Lecton saw this wicked man about to invade our sacred grounds and he struck him dead,’ proclaimed Horneby, the light of religious fervour already burning in his eyes.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘That is not what happened. You can see for yourself that Kyrkeby’s feet are pointing this way. That means that he was leaving here, not coming to attack.’

‘He may have come feet first,’ said Horneby stubbornly.

‘The tunnel curves upwards,’ said Bartholomew. ‘No one goes up a tunnel feet first. It would be virtually impossible, not to mention uncomfortable. Where is that spade?’

One of the students handed him one of the heaviest and bluntest tools Bartholomew had ever seen. It possessed a wooden handle so worn that it was as smooth as new metal, and the rivets that held the iron blade were loose and wobbled disconcertingly when he leaned on it. He scratched away some of the muddy earth, then took hold of the cold, white foot to pull again.

‘Have there been collapses of the tunnel before?’ asked Michael of Horneby, watching Bartholomew strain and pant with the effort.

Horneby shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. It is made of clay, and clay never collapses.’

‘Do not speak nonsense,’ snapped Michael irritably. ‘Clay subsides just as readily as any other soil.’ He saw Bartholomew lose his grip on the foot again, and the body slid back into its premature tomb. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Let me do it.’

He elbowed Bartholomew aside, and began hauling and tugging on the foot for all he was worth. His sizeable girth gave the impression that he was flabby and weak, but Michael was actually a very strong man. Everyone winced when a loud crack indicated a broken bone, and Bartholomew stopped him before his impatience resulted in the removal of Kyrkeby’s foot. He did not want claims of mutilation to accompany the accusations of murder that were sure to follow. He lay on his stomach and applied the spade with a little more vigour, digging while Timothy held the damaged leg. And then Bartholomew felt something give.

‘He is coming out,’ he gasped, digging harder. ‘Pull!’

In a shower of pebbles and liquid mud, the Dominican Precentor shot from the earth, landing on Timothy, who was not quick enough to move out of the way. Revolted, the Junior Proctor scrambled away, leaving Kyrkeby lying in a dishevelled heap on the ground. Bartholomew knelt next to the corpse, wiping sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his tabard, while Timothy hastily retreated behind Humphrey de Lecton’s tomb, where Bartholomew was certain he was being sick.

The body was filthy, and the physician could barely make out the features of the face, even when one of the students obligingly held a lamp closer. Kyrkeby’s head was loose, and rolled at an unnatural angle, while a brownish-red mess on the back of his skull indicated he had received a crushing blow there at some point.

‘Well?’ asked Michael, standing with his hands on his hips. ‘You said we would know more when you had a whole body to inspect. You have a whole body, so what can you tell me?’

‘Not here, Brother,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘I recommend we take Kyrkeby to St Michael’s Church, where I can examine him properly. Then we can have him cleaned before returning him to the Dominicans.’

‘Why?’ demanded Horneby aggressively. ‘Let them clean their own dead. They did not treat Faricius so kindly.’

‘Because if you hand Kyrkeby back to his colleagues looking like this, you will have angry Dominicans massing outside your gates demanding vengeance,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We will break the news to them when we can show them a corpse that does not look as though it has been treated with disrespect.’

‘Very sensible,’ said Lincolne approvingly. ‘I do not want a horde of nominalists yelling at me all night when I am trying to sleep.’

‘Perhaps a prayer for this poor man’s soul might not go amiss,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Whatever you might think of Dominicans, you might at least do that.’

‘Very well,’ said Lincolne with a sigh. He gestured to his students to kneel in a circle, and drew himself up to his full height to begin a mass that sounded impressive, even if it was probably not sincere. His flask of holy water emerged, and was splashed around with its customary vigour, splattering the students and the ground as well as Kyrkeby.

‘Fetch Cynric,’ said Michael in a low voice to Bartholomew. ‘Ask him to summon my beadles to carry Kyrkeby to the church. I will remain here with the body, and ensure they do not tamper with the evidence.’

‘Will you be all right alone?’ asked Bartholomew, reluctant to leave the monk in a graveyard where the killer might be kneeling in the praying circle around his victim.

‘Of course I will. Timothy will be with me, and anyway, even the most desperate of killers is unlikely to attack me in full view of the rest of his friary.’

‘Do you think any of them will stop him?’ asked Bartholomew nervously. ‘They might decide it is better for you to die, rather than the killer be exposed.’

‘They would find it difficult to explain my corpse and Timothy’s, as well as Kyrkeby’s, when you return with the beadles,’ said Michael, smiling wanly. ‘Go, Matt. Now that Cynric lives with his wife and not in Michaelhouse, he is not far away. You can be back within moments.’

Bartholomew glanced behind him as he left, and saw the lamplight gleaming around the edges of Lincolne’s funnel of hair, like a halo. The Prior’s prayers carried on the still air as the physician hurried out of the convent and into Milne Street, where his book-bearer occupied a pleasant room in Oswald Stanmore’s business premises.

Cynric answered the urgent knocking almost immediately, and Bartholomew was surprised to see the small Welshman cloaked and fully armed, as though he had anticipated being summoned on University business.

‘Have you been out?’ asked Bartholomew, as Cynric closed the door behind him so that their voices would not disturb his wife.

Cynric shook his head. ‘Not yet. Rachel and I have been going to the Holy Week vigils at St Mary’s Church. There is no point undressing when you have to put it all back on again in a few hours, so we sleep in our clothes. Anyway, it is warmer. But what is the problem? It would not be another murder, would it?’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

Cynric grinned, his teeth gleaming white in the dim light from the candle he held. ‘What other business is there that brings you to me after dusk?’

‘I occasionally need you to go with me to see a patient,’ said Bartholomew.

‘But not often,’ said Cynric. ‘And anyway, you tend to use your students for that. No, boy. When I hear your soft tap on the door after the curfew bell has sounded, I know it only means one thing: the University has itself another killing.’

‘Well, that was an unpleasant day,’ said Michael, flopping into a comfortable chair in Michaelhouse’s kitchen much later that evening. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, aided by the large goblet of mulled ale that was pressed into his ready hand by Agatha the laundress.

It was very late, and most scholars were in bed, huddled under their blankets in an attempt to keep warm, even if they were not sleeping. It had been a long winter, and Michaelhouse had already spent the money allocated to firewood for the year. Langelee, juggling the College’s finances with a skill that surprised everyone who knew him, had managed to provide funds for fuel to warm the hall during breakfast and dinner, but the remainder of the day was spent in chilly misery. At nine o’clock that evening, the hall was abandoned, and lay dark, icy and silent.

The kitchen was a different matter. It was not possible to cook without a fire, and so it was always the warmest place in the College. Also, Agatha the laundress, who unofficially supervised the domestic side of Michaelhouse, was not the kind of woman to freeze while there was kindling in the woods and all kinds of ‘kinsfolk’ to acquire it for her. There was a cosy fire blazing, even at that late hour, with a cauldron of spiced ale bubbling over it and fresh oatcakes heating on a griddle to one side.

Agatha was a formidable figure, whose personal opinions rivalled those of Father William for bigotry and ignorance. She had been laundress at Michaelhouse for years – how many years no one could remember – although she did not look any different to Bartholomew than she had done when he had arrived to take up his appointment as master of medicine some ten years before. She was a big woman, although Bartholomew would not have called her fat, and had a large, open face with a bristly chin that was the envy of some of Bartholomew’s younger, beardless undergraduates.

‘Terrible business about Walcote,’ said Agatha, passing Michael the platter of oatcakes before settling herself in her large wicker throne near the fire. ‘I was sorry to hear about him. He seemed a nice man.’

‘He was,’ agreed Michael. ‘You have not heard any rumours about his death, have you? My beadles said you were in the King’s Head the night he died, and that is often a good place to pick up snippets of information about such matters.’

‘It was certainly discussed,’ replied Agatha. ‘Sergeant Orwelle from the Castle came into the King’s Head for a drink to steady his nerves after he found poor Walcote hanging by the neck like some felon on a gibbet.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Michael, hastily suppressing the unpleasant image she had created in his mind. ‘I spoke to Orwelle myself, but people often say more to their drinking companions than they do to the forces of law and order.’

‘Only that Walcote was hanging from the drainage pipe outside the Dominican Friary,’ said Agatha. ‘And that someone had stolen his purse.’

‘His purse?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I did not know about that, and no one mentioned it at Barnwell Priory. How did Orwelle come to notice such a thing?’

‘People do notice things like missing purses,’ said Agatha, surprised by the question. ‘These are hard times, Brother, and no one is paid what he deserves. The dead have no use for earthly wealth, and so it is only fitting that whoever finds a corpse and raises the alarm should have what is left.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished by the assertion. ‘That Tulyet’s soldiers regularly engage in corpse-robbing?’

‘You cannot rob a corpse,’ stated Agatha authoritatively. ‘A corpse cannot own anything, and so it stands to reason that you cannot steal from it.’

‘Well argued,’ said Michael. ‘Although I am not sure I concur. A corpse might not own anything, but his next of kin are entitled to what he leaves. But never mind the ethics of all this. Tell me more about the purse.’

‘Sergeant Orwelle noticed the purse was gone, because he was going to put it in a safe place for Walcote’s next of kin,’ said Agatha, unashamedly changing her story to protect Orwelle’s reputation. ‘We all asked him who might have killed poor Walcote, but he did not know. We all believe it was a scholar, though.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, raising his eyebrows laconically. ‘And why would that be, pray?’

‘The proctors keep the scholars in order,’ said Agatha. ‘We townsfolk like proctors, but we do not always like the rest of you. You are always engaging in stupid squabbles. I heard in the King’s Head that the latest argument is about whether things that do not have names are real. It is all a lot of nonsense, if you ask me.’

‘Put like that, it sounds like a lot of nonsense to me, too,’ said Michael, smiling at Agatha’s terse summary of the nominalism – realism debate. ‘Still, you show a better understanding of the issues at stake than Father William does.’

‘Dear William,’ said Agatha fondly. ‘He does not indulge in all this subtle plotting and cunning quarrelling.’

‘I should say,’ agreed Michael wholeheartedly. ‘No one could ever accuse William of being subtle or cunning.’

‘It is Thursday tomorrow,’ said Agatha, easing her bulk from her chair. ‘Only three days left of Lent. I had better go to bed, because I have Easter supplies to buy, baking to supervise, and doubtless you will all want your albs washed for the celebrations; Matthew’s will almost certainly need mending.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘It is not torn.’

‘Everything you give me to launder is torn,’ Agatha admonished him. ‘Just look at you now. The hem on your tabard is down, your shirt cuffs are frayed, and you have ripped the knee out of your hose.’

‘That was from grovelling in the mud trying to pull Dominicans out of other men’s graves,’ muttered Bartholomew, noticing for the first time that thick, silty dirt still clung to him.

‘Brother Michael was also pulling dead men from the ground, but he is not in such a state. You need to improve yourself,’ instructed Agatha. ‘I am a laundress, not a muck-collector, and I do not want to be up to my elbows in filth every time you give me a bundle of clothes to clean.’

Having said her piece and expecting no argument, Agatha banked the fire and made her way to her quarters above the service rooms behind the kitchens. As the only female member of the College, she had more space and a better room than Master Langelee. She was proud of the sway she held in the College, and expected to be treated with deference.

When she had gone, Bartholomew took her place, settling himself down among the cushions that still held her warmth and that smelled of wood-smoke and cooked food. In pride of place was one that was blue with a gold fringe. It had been used to smother Langelee’s predecessor while the man had counted his money. Although Agatha swore it had been carefully cleaned, Bartholomew remained convinced that he could still detect a dark patch where the victim’s saliva had stained it. Picking it up between thumb and forefinger, he flung it to the other side of the room, where it was gratefully received by the College cat.

‘Pity about Kyrkeby,’ said Michael, taking another oatcake for himself and throwing one to Bartholomew, so hard that the physician found himself with a lap full of crumbs. ‘I confess I had not expected to find him dead when he was reported missing.’

‘And I had not anticipated finding his body stuffed inside an old tomb,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As you saw, he was not easy to extricate.’

‘He was not,’ agreed Michael. ‘How did he come to be thrust in it so tightly? I know it was growing dark, and that the Carmelites were fussing and flapping around us like bees at a honey pot, but what could you determine?’

‘Not much,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The body was in such a mess that it was difficult to tell what had happened to it.’

‘We will have a hard job cleaning it up,’ said Michael. ‘Will you do it? I will not.’

‘I did not imagine you would,’ said Bartholomew, sipping more of his ale, and relishing the warmth as it reached his stomach. ‘But perhaps Agatha will help. She had a lot of experience laying out bodies during the plague.’

‘You were right to suggest that we clean Kyrkeby before handing him to the Dominicans,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘I do not think I have ever seen a body in such a state. I know you said it was too dark to conduct a proper investigation until morning, but what are your first impressions?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘There was enough light for me to see that there was a serious wound to the head that would have killed him had he been alive when it was inflicted. It was also light enough for me to tell that his neck had been broken.’

‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Are you saying that someone hit him on the head so hard that it broke his neck?’

‘Lord, no!’ said Bartholomew with a shudder. ‘At least, I sincerely hope not. That kind of strength would mean that we have some kind of monster on the loose.’

‘What then?’ asked Michael impatiently. ‘That someone broke his neck and he damaged his head when he fell to the ground?’

‘I cannot tell. And then, of course, there was his weak heart. I have been physicking him over several months for that complaint – and he was quite ill with it on Monday afternoon.’

‘But you must be able to tell how he died,’ pressed Michael, determined to have an answer. ‘And what about the tunnel? Did it collapse naturally? Or did someone tamper with it?’

‘I have no idea, although I cannot see that a body would be so firmly stuck just from someone pushing it inside.’

‘The body was swollen,’ suggested Michael. ‘Maybe it just got bigger, as corpses are wont to do after death – gasses, you once told me.’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has been missing for two days – since Monday evening – although the weather is cold, which tends to slow that sort of thing down. But if someone did use the tunnel as a hiding place, he did not do a very good job by leaving a foot sticking out. And if the tunnel were used fairly frequently, which was the impression I gained from Horneby and his friends, then it was not a very permanent hiding place, either.’

‘Perhaps it was not intended to be permanent. Perhaps it was intended to hide the body long enough until somewhere better could be found.’ Michael groaned suddenly. ‘What a mess, Matt! We do not know whether Kyrkeby was hit over the head, his neck broken, rammed down a hole that collapsed on him, or died naturally. And we do not even know when it happened.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But remember the position of the body? Kyrkeby appeared to be leaving the Carmelite Friary, not entering it.’

‘Then perhaps he was meeting someone there. But he was taking a risk if he were. It would have been safer to arrange a meeting outside both friaries, on neutral ground – for him and for the Carmelite with whom he had business.’

‘But that assumes that the person Kyrkeby was meeting knew Kyrkeby wanted to see him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he did not.’

Michael sighed and scrubbed hard at his temples with two forefingers that were flecked with oatcake crumbs. ‘I do not understand any of this, Matt.’

‘Nor me,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I have the feeling that all the evidence we have gained so far has been very superficial and incidental, and that there is a lot more that we do not know.’

Michael agreed. ‘But tomorrow we will find out. We will tell the Dominicans what has become of their Precentor first thing in the morning, and then I will ask whether any of them knows anything about a missing essay on nominalism.’

The following morning, just as the first glimmerings of dawn lightened the sky, Bartholomew dragged himself from a deep sleep, and washed and shaved in the dim light, muttering under his breath when he could not find a clean shirt. Michael tapped on the door and they walked into the courtyard together, ready to process to the church for the morning mass. The other scholars had barely started to assemble when Brother Timothy arrived, breathless and white-faced. Michael regarded his Junior Proctor uneasily, anticipating more bad news, but it was not Michael that Timothy wanted: he had been sent to fetch Bartholomew, because old Brother Adam was having trouble catching his breath. The physician grabbed his bag and set off at a run with Michael following at a rather more sedate pace.

It was raining steadily, and the High Street was little more than a river of thin, splashy mud. Those who were early risers looked cold and miserable as they trudged along, and seemed to be wearing clothes that had dulled to a shade of drab brown in the wet semi-darkness. Even the animals that were being herded to the Market Square were dirty and bedraggled. Roofs released thin trickles of filthy water into the streets below, and the plaster-fronted houses were grey with damp.

They reached Ely Hall, and Timothy shoved open the front door to precede them along the narrow corridor and up the stairs to the upper floor. What had once been a single large chamber had been divided into six small rooms to afford the Benedictines some privacy. Timothy had a chamber that overlooked a vile little yard at the back, while Janius and Adam had been allocated ones at the front with windows that boasted a view of the Market Square.

‘Thank God you are here,’ said Janius, crossing himself vigorously when he saw Bartholomew. ‘We were beginning to fear that you would be too late. We have been praying hard, but God has not performed a miracle yet.’

Bartholomew pushed past him to where Brother Adam lay wheezing and gasping on his bed. The old man’s face was grey, and his eyes indicated that he was very frightened. The room was stifling hot from the fire that blazed in the hearth, so the physician ordered the window opened. Then he helped Adam to sit and asked Timothy for a bowl of boiling water. While he waited, he gave Adam a small dose of poppy syrup to calm him, then a larger dose of lungwort in wine to ease the congestion. When the hot water arrived, he scattered myrrh into it and talked calmly while the old man inhaled the vapours with a cloth over his head.

After a while, Adam’s breathlessness eased and colour began to creep back into his cheeks. The monks who had clustered around the door heaved a sigh of relief, and Janius began to recite a prayer of thanksgiving in a loud, braying voice. He glared at his brethren until they joined in.

‘Thank you,’ said Adam softly, leaning back against his cushions and smiling weakly at Bartholomew. ‘This happens from time to time, especially when I go out.’

‘Why did you go out?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I recommended that you remain indoors, at least until the weather improves.’

‘At dawn today I felt like a stroll in the Market Square,’ replied Adam. ‘And in December I attended a meeting at St Radegund’s Convent. Other than that, I have obeyed your instructions to the letter.’

‘You were at the gatherings called by Walcote?’ asked Michael in astonishment, crouching next to the bed so that he could hear Adam above the strident prayers emanating from the corridor.

Adam nodded. ‘It was unpleasant walking there so late at night, and I was so ill afterwards that I told Walcote I would not attend any more. It was not a very interesting meeting, anyway.’

‘Why did you go?’ asked Michael. ‘Why not one of the others?’

‘Walcote invited me specifically, because I am Ely Hall’s senior Benedictine,’ said Adam. ‘I was going to suggest that Janius or Timothy went in my place, but the meeting was a waste of time, as it happened. We did nothing but talk about how to repair the Great Bridge and how to suppress the ideas of the realists. I do not hold with realism personally, but I do not like the notion of censoring theories and thoughts. It is a dangerous path to tread.’

‘Who else was there?’ demanded Michael.

‘Will Walcote and Prior Ralph represented the Austin canons, while Prior Morden put in an appearance for the Dominicans.’

‘The Austins and the Dominicans,’ said Michael in an undertone to Bartholomew. ‘That is new information. Matilde and Eve Wasteneys told us about the Carmelites, Franciscans and Gilbertines. If Adam is right, then virtually every Order in Cambridge was represented at Walcote’s nasty little covens.’

Bartholomew addressed Adam. ‘What about the Franciscans, Carmelites and Gilbertines? Did you see any of those at these meetings?’

Adam shook his head. ‘When Walcote told me that he was organising meetings for the leaders of the religious Orders, I told him I would be surprised if he could persuade the Dominicans to sit under one roof with Carmelites and Franciscans. I was right: he could not.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew in sudden understanding. ‘Walcote probably divided his gatherings between those who follow nominalism and those who follow realism. That is why Matilde – whose information came from the Carmelite Lincolne – only knew about him, the Franciscans and the Gilbertines. And that is why only Benedictines, Dominicans and Austins were at the gathering attended by Adam.’

‘It also explains why Eve Wasteneys said she was not sure whether the men she saw attended the same meetings,’ said Timothy thoughtfully. ‘She knew different people came on different occasions.’

Michael sighed heavily. ‘But this still does not explain why no one told me about these wretched events. I am the Senior Proctor. It was not right for Walcote to have organised them without my knowledge.’

‘It was not,’ said Janius, who had finished his prayers and was apparently honing his talent for eavesdropping. ‘But now Timothy is your Junior Proctor, such things will not happen again.’

‘Did you know about all this?’ Michael asked him.

Janius nodded slowly. ‘Adam confided in me. He had been sworn to secrecy and so obviously I could not mention it to anyone else. However, I confess I had forgotten about it until Adam reminded me just now. It happened months ago – before Yuletide.’

‘I remember it clearly, because it was the walk in the cold and the rain that caused my illness,’ said Adam. ‘I was stupid to have gone in the first place, and Janius recommended that I should attend no more of them.’

‘And Walcote invited no one in your place?’ asked Michael.

There were shaken heads all around. ‘If he had, I would have suggested that we did not go,’ said Janius. ‘Who would want an assignation in a place like that, anyway?’

‘The fact that the Benedictines did not attend after the first time explains something else, too,’ said Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘Matilde mentioned that the numbers of people at the meetings had been dwindling. Now we learn that Adam declined to go because he considered them a waste of time. I was worried that there might be a more sinister reason for the dropping attendance.’

‘But someone still should have told me,’ persisted Michael.

‘There was very little to tell,’ said Adam apologetically. ‘As I said, we chatted about whether to donate money to repair the Great Bridge and the nominalism – realism debate.’

‘But why did Walcote hold his gatherings in the middle of the night if you discussed such mundane matters?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I suppose subsequent ones might have been more interesting,’ admitted Adam. ‘As I told you, I only went to one.’

‘We will have that information from Prior Morden of the Dominicans,’ determined Michael. ‘We shall ask him about it when we deliver his dead colleague. Meanwhile, if you receive another invitation to one of these affairs, please tell me.’

‘We can do better than that,’ said Timothy with a grin. ‘Janius or I will go in Adam’s place and report everything that is said.’

Michael smiled his appreciation, then followed Bartholomew down the stairs and out into the Market Square, leaving Adam to rest. Timothy walked with them, then made his way to St Mary’s Church, where the beadles were assembling to receive their daily orders. Michael watched him go.

‘I made a wise decision when I chose a Benedictine as Junior Proctor. Timothy has held office for only two days, and yet I can trust him to direct my beadles already. I would have far less time to investigate these murders, if it were not for him.’

‘There is Heytesbury,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a small, neat figure who stood near one of the farmers’ stalls in the Market Square.

‘He is an early riser,’ said Michael.

‘It looks to me as though he has not yet gone to bed,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at Heytesbury’s display of whiskers and dishevelled appearance. ‘He and Richard have probably been enjoying Cambridge’s taverns. Look, there is Richard’s horse.’

‘Heytesbury is not the kind of man to indulge in all-night debauchery,’ said Michael. ‘I do not believe he has been carousing with your errant nephew.’

Heytesbury was watching with amusement the antics of the Black Bishop of Bedminster, which had managed to slip its tether and was browsing a stack of wizened apples. The outraged farmer was powerless to stop it: slaps on its gleaming rump resulted in flailing back hoofs that threatened to kill, while no one dared to grab the reins because they were too near its battery of strong yellow teeth. Black Bishop’s eyes glistened evilly in its head, and its ears twitched back and forth as it listened for anyone rash enough to approach it while it gorged itself.

‘I do not know what possessed Richard to buy that thing,’ said Heytesbury, as Bartholomew and Michael strolled over to join him. Bartholomew detected the unmistakable odour of wine on his breath, and knew that Michael was wrong to think that Heytesbury was no carouser. ‘He is quite unable to control it, and it is only a matter of time before it does someone a serious injury.’

‘How much longer do you plan to stay in Cambridge?’ asked Michael conversationally. ‘Because if you intend to leave soon, I have the documents that will formalise our arrangements already drafted in my room at Michaelhouse. You can sign them any time you are ready.’

‘I will bear that in mind,’ said Heytesbury. He nodded to where Black Bishop still grazed the furious farmer’s fruit. ‘Is that the Fellow of Michaelhouse whom everyone claims is mad?’

Bartholomew started forward in alarm when he saw Clippesby – who had evidently managed to slip away from the Michaelhouse mass – stride up to the horse and take a firm hold of the reins. Black Bishop started to rear, angry eyes rolling white in its dark head. But Clippesby was talking in a low, intense voice, and the horse apparently had second thoughts. Its front hoofs thumped down on the ground, and its ears flicked, as if it were listening. When Clippesby’s voice dropped to a whisper, Black Bishop’s head craned forward, as if straining to catch everything that was said.

‘I see what people mean about him,’ said Heytesbury, regarding the scene in amusement. ‘A Fellow who talks to animals is peculiar indeed.’

‘You have seen nothing yet,’ muttered Michael. ‘In a few moments Clippesby will probably tell everyone in the Market Square what the Black Bishop of Bedminster said to him.’

Heytesbury laughed. ‘How can I sign your document and leave Cambridge, Brother? There is simply too much here to entertain me.’

‘Damn!’ said Michael, as Heytesbury moved away from them and edged closer to Clippesby and the horse, aiming to gain a better view. ‘I wish he would just make his mark on our agreement and go home. The future of our University lies in securing wealthy benefactors, and the longer he dallies, the less time I will have to coax Oxford’s patrons over to Cambridge. I might have secured a couple this summer, but now I will not have sufficient time.’

‘Why do we need to steal Oxford’s patrons?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why can we not find some of our own?’

Michael gave him an incredulous glance. ‘It is not so much that we need the patrons ourselves; it is more a case that we do not want Oxford to have them. They are already bigger than us, and I do not want to be in a position where they are capable of crushing us.’

‘That will not happen. It was possible after the plague, when there was a shortage of scholars, but things seemed to have settled down since then. Oxford poses no danger to us now.’

‘Do not be so sure. It is not impossible that the plague will return, and then there will be even fewer men willing to study. I do not want to see this University cease to exist for the want of a little forethought. Look what happened to the fledgling universities at Stamford and Northampton.’

‘Scholars from Oxford and Cambridge joined forces and petitioned for them to be suppressed,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is a very different matter for two large universities to suppress a smaller third, than for one to suppress another.’

‘You are wrong to be complacent, Matt.’ Michael’s mouth narrowed in a determined line. ‘But if and when Oxford makes a move against us, I shall be ready.’