An Order for Death

Chapter 7

IT WAS NO EASY TASK TO WASH KYRKEBY’S BODY CLEAN OF mud so that a glance at it would not send the Dominicans racing to the Carmelite Friary to demand vengeance. While his colleagues’ voices echoed around the chancel of St Michael’s as they completed the first mass of the day, Bartholomew went to the south aisle where Kyrkeby’s body lay, and began his investigation as the early light filtered through the east window.

Kyrkeby looked even worse in daylight. His face was a mottled grey-white, partly from the filth that plastered it, and partly because his temporary tomb had been water-logged, and he had probably spent a good part of the previous two days buried in mud. Bartholomew had hoped to detect a slight blueness around the mouth and nose, which might indicate that the cause of death had been Kyrkeby’s weak heart, but it was impossible to tell. Kyrkeby’s eyes were slightly open in a head that lolled at a sickening angle, and there was also the wound to the back of the head. When the physician felt it, he could hear and see the broken skull bones grating under his fingers.

He stared down at the corpse. He knew that when a person died, the blood stopped moving in the veins. Thus, wounds inflicted after death tended not to bleed or to bleed very little. Bruises, however, were a different matter. These were injuries where a blow caused small blood vessels to rupture under the skin, rather than through it, and such ruptures did and could occur after death. Unlike with cuts, therefore, Bartholomew knew of no way to tell when a bruise was inflicted. So he was unable to determine whether the damage to Kyrkeby was done while he had still been alive.

He inspected the man’s hands, to see whether ripped or cracked nails indicated some kind of struggle with his attacker, as Walcote’s had done. Kyrkeby’s fingers were thick with dirt, but when Bartholomew wiped it off he saw nails that were gnawed to the quick and that would not have broken anyway. Next he checked for the kind of injuries he associated with someone trying to defend himself – wounds to the arms where the victim had tried to fend off an attacker, or where he had turned away to protect his head. There was nothing definitive, and the marks on Kyrkeby’s arms did not tell him whether the Dominican had struggled against an attacker or not.

Dispirited, Bartholomew examined the rest of the body, but found nothing to give him any further clues as to what had happened. The soles of Kyrkeby’s shoes were muddy, but with muck that seemed more like the dirt of the High Street than the clinging clay of the Carmelites’ hole in the ground. Bartholomew rubbed his chin, wondering whether this implied that Kyrkeby had not entered the tomb of his own accord.

And that was all. Beneath his habit, the Dominican Precentor wore homespun hose of dark brown and a woollen vest, both of which were thick and warm and of a quality that indicated the friar had the means to purchase better clothes than the ones that were provided free of charge by his Order. Recalling the purses that had been stolen from Walcote and Faricius, Bartholomew rifled through Kyrkeby’s clothes to see if he could find the leather scrip most friars carried at their waists, anticipating that the Dominican’s would be large and well filled if his clothes were anything to go by. However, if Kyrkeby had possessed such an item, it was not with his body now.

Bartholomew was just finishing his examination when Agatha arrived. The church was silent, and he realised that the scholars had finished their prayers and had returned to Michaelhouse. She nodded a brusque greeting, and began her work, grunting and swearing as she scrubbed the dark mud from the dead man’s skin, her large hips swaying vigorously and her skirts swinging about her ankles. While Bartholomew fetched pail after pail of water from the well in the Market Square, she gradually turned Kyrkeby into something that resembled a human being. She sluiced the dirt from his hair and brushed it back from his face, and rinsed the muck from his eyes and ears.

At eight o’clock the bells began to toll for terce, the great bass boom of St Mary’s drowning out the tinny clatters from St John Zachary and All Saints in the Jewry. Carts rattled along the High Street, and the shouts of the owners of the stalls in the market began to ring out as trade got under way. Feet splashed through puddles as students ran to lectures and apprentices hurried about their masters’ business.

‘That is better,’ remarked Michael, walking into the porch a little later, and leaning over to inspect their handiwork. ‘But he still looks rough. Can you do no better?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly, wiping his hands and arms on a piece of rag and rolling down his sleeves. ‘I have spent a large part of the morning on this. We should tell the Dominicans what has happened soon, or they will be accusing us of withholding information from them – no matter how honourable our intentions.’

‘True,’ admitted Michael. ‘Although I have been busy, too. I went to the Carmelite Friary to poke around that tunnel to see if we missed anything last night…’

‘And did we?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully.

‘No. Then I walked to St Radegund’s to see if Matilde had uncovered anything useful…’

‘How is she?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

‘She sat in the solar with her hands cupped around her ears, so she had nothing to report. Tysilia informed me, somewhat out of the blue, that eating too many oatcakes would turn me into a horse…’

‘That would not have been because you were eating the nuns’ food, would it, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew innocently.

‘And I spoke to Sergeant Orwelle again,’ continued Michael, ignoring him. ‘I asked whether there was anything more he could tell me about when he found Walcote’s body.’

‘And was there?’

‘Of course not,’ said Agatha dismissively. ‘I told you all there was to know. I have already informed you that I was in the King’s Head when he burst in and announced what had happened.’

‘It is as well to be sure,’ said Michael. ‘You may have forgotten something, or thought something was unimportant when it was vital.’

‘And had I forgotten anything?’ demanded Agatha, hands on hips and eyes narrowed.

‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘However, I did learn one new thing from Orwelle.’

‘I suppose you mean the fact that he found Walcote’s purse at dawn this morning?’ asked Agatha carelessly. ‘He discovered it near Barnwell Priory.’

Michael stared at her. ‘You already know about this?’

‘Orwelle has been obsessed by that missing purse,’ said Agatha smugly, gratified that her intelligence seemed to be better than Michael’s. ‘Walcote was a fairly wealthy man, you see, and Orwelle could not push the thought of a full purse out of his mind. He is always on the lookout for dropped pennies in the mud, and this morning he found Walcote’s scrip.’ She pointed to a sorry-looking item that Michael extracted from his own scrip and held distastefully between thumb and forefinger. ‘That is it.’

‘How do you know it is Walcote’s?’ asked Bartholomew, inspecting it carefully. ‘It could be anyone’s.’

‘Because Walcote is the only man to have lost a purse recently,’ said Agatha impatiently.

‘Faricius lost one,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘How can you be sure this is not his?’

Agatha gave a heavy sigh. ‘Because it is obvious that Walcote’s killers stole it from his body, and then threw it away as they fled from the town, just as they passed Barnwell Priory.’

‘That seems a strange coincidence,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Walcote lived at Barnwell, and now Orwelle finds his purse nearby. Perhaps Walcote dropped it, and it was not stolen at all.’

‘I think Agatha is right: the killer took the purse, then made off to the wasteland around Barnwell before removing its contents,’ said Michael. ‘Orwelle found it empty.’

‘It is Walcote’s purse,’ declared Agatha firmly, seeing that Bartholomew remained uncertain. ‘I have a feeling about it, and my feelings are never wrong.’

Bartholomew saw there was no point in arguing with her. She was convinced she was right, and that was that. He looked down at the sodden leather bag. It was filthy, consistent with lying in the mud and rain since Monday night, and was empty. Other than that, it was unremarkable. It was one of the ones sold by the dozen in the Market Square, and comprised a brown pouch with holes punched into the top, through which a string was threaded that sealed it when drawn tight. Bartholomew owned one just like it. He doubted whether anyone would be able to identify it as definitely Walcote’s or Faricius’s – or even Kyrkeby’s.

‘If Walcote was a man of means, why would he own a cheap purse like this?’ he asked thoughtfully.

‘He did, though,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘We proctors fine undergraduates in pennies, and a sturdy leather scrip like this is perfect for holding them. More expensive ones tend not to be strong enough to hold large quantities of base coins of the realm.’

‘And what about Faricius?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did he own one of these, too?’

‘We can ask,’ said Michael.

‘And Orwelle found this one empty?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘He did not take its contents before passing it to you?’

‘I confess that crossed my mind,’ admitted Michael. ‘But Orwelle was bitterly disappointed that there was nothing in it. I do not think he would have been able to lie quite so convincingly, had he taken its contents for himself.’ He sighed. ‘So, the motive for Walcote’s murder looks to have been theft. It seems to fit the facts. And that means we are dealing with a random act of violence after all, not some clever conspiracy.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Theft is inconsistent with the manner of his death: why hang someone when it is easier, quicker and much safer to stab him? Walcote’s death has the feel of an execution to me, not a simple robbery.’

Michael gestured to Kyrkeby’s body. ‘What can you tell us about him? You wanted more light so that you could see what you were doing, so what can you tell me now?’

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have learned nothing new. All the options I outlined last night – struck on the head, his neck snapped, crushed in the tunnel or his heart giving out – are still equally possible.’

‘Not the latter, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘No one would need to hide a body that had died naturally. Oh, damn it all! Where did he come from?’

Bartholomew turned to see Richard Stanmore entering the church. His nephew’s scented goose grease could be smelled the instant he pushed open the door, and Michael immediately sneezed. Behind Richard, and cruelly – although very accurately – mimicking his mincing walk, was Cynric, coming to see whether Bartholomew needed any help.

‘God’s blood, man!’ Michael snuffled, removing a piece of linen from his scrip with which to dab at his nose. ‘What have you done to yourself? You smell as though you have spent the night romping with whores.’

‘And what would a monk know of such things?’ asked Richard innocently. ‘However, I can assure you that a man of my standing in society is hardly likely to “romp with whores”, as you so delicately put it.’

Bartholomew was sceptical of this claim, recalling the presence of Richard’s horse in the Market Square suspiciously early that morning.

Michael sneezed again, and looked Richard up and down disparagingly. Bartholomew could see why the monk was disapproving. Richard was wearing yet another set of exquisite clothes, this time in shades of red and gold. Around his waist was an ornate belt, from which dangled a dagger that was mostly handle and no blade. Bartholomew saw Cynric regarding it with amazement that turned to mirth. Despite his finery, however, Richard did not look well. There was a puffiness around his eyes, and his complexion was sallow and unhealthy, as if he were enjoying a lifestyle that was too hard on his body and required of him too many sleepless nights. With a flourish, Richard produced the bandage Bartholomew had lent him the morning after Walcote had died and wrapped it around the lower half of his face.

‘That is better,’ he declared in a muffled voice. ‘The King’s courtiers tie cloth around their noses to exclude foul smells from their nostrils. It stinks like a butcher’s stall in here.’

‘What do you want?’ demanded Michael, irritated. ‘Do not expect your uncle to waste time with you today. He is busy with University business.’

‘Since when has that fat monk been your keeper?’ asked Richard, addressing Bartholomew and deliberately turning his back on Michael. ‘Does he decide when you see your family these days?’

‘As it happens, he is right,’ said Bartholomew shortly, not liking the way Richard and Michael bickered. Richard was arrogant and obnoxious, and Bartholomew understood exactly why Michael had taken a dislike to him. But when all was said and done, he was Bartholomew’s nephew, and he felt Michael might have made some pretence at affability. ‘I am busy today.’

‘Very well,’ said Richard, disappointed. ‘I only wanted you to introduce me to Master Langelee. I suppose it can wait.’

‘What do you want with Langelee?’ demanded Michael immediately. ‘He will have nothing to say to a young man who wears an ear-ring.’

‘You should invest in one,’ said Richard, treating the monk to a knowing wink. ‘They are very popular with the ladies.’

‘Then maybe the ladies should wear them,’ retorted Michael. ‘Yours makes you look like a pirate, not a lawyer.’

‘I thought they were the same thing,’ muttered Cynric, regarding Richard, his ear-ring and his ornamental dagger with undisguised disdain.

Agatha stepped forward, and in one lightning-fast movement that caught Richard unawares, she seized the offending item between her thick fingers to inspect it minutely. Richard froze in alarm, while Bartholomew held his breath, half expecting her to rip the ear-ring from its lobe to underline her disapproval. But she merely released it and moved away, wrinkling her nose and pursing her lips to indicate that she did not like the scent of the goose grease that clogged the air around him.

‘This particular fashion will not last long,’ she announced, indicating the ear-ring with a jerk of her thumb. ‘What sane person deliberately pierces himself with a piece of metal?’

‘Everyone at court has one,’ objected Richard, rubbing his ear ruefully. ‘Those who do not are considered to be dowdy and not worth knowing.’

‘It is comforting to know that our country is being governed by men with gold through their ears and buttons on their shirts,’ said Michael coolly. ‘No wonder we have been at war with France for so long: everyone spends his time thinking about ear-rings and clothes, while affairs of state are deemed unfashionable and unimportant.’

Disgusted, both by Richard and the courtiers he imagined were damaging his country, the monk began to stride towards the door. Richard hovered to talk to Bartholomew.

‘Have you heard that Master Heytesbury is to give the University Lecture on Sunday in St Mary’s Church?’ he asked smugly. ‘You have me to thank for that: I arranged it all.’

‘You did what?’ demanded Michael, storming back down the nave. ‘It is not for the likes of you to organise who speaks in the University of Cambridge’s public debates.’

‘Because I am an Oxford man?’ asked Richard insolently. ‘I will tell Master Heytesbury you take that attitude. He will certainly rethink whether he wishes to do business with you, if you regard him and his colleagues in so poor a light.’

‘You will mind your own affairs,’ snapped Michael angrily. ‘My arrangements with Heytesbury have nothing to do with you.’

‘He asked me what I thought of you,’ said Richard carelessly, relishing the fact that he had nettled the monk. ‘He wanted to know whether you can be trusted.’

‘My affairs have nothing to do with you,’ repeated Michael in a venomous whisper.

‘So, why are you prepared to give Oxford that property?’ pressed Richard, unmoved by Michael’s fury. ‘As Heytesbury’s lawyer, I have been over the deeds very carefully, but there is no trick. Since you are not a generous man, the only other explanation is that you are a fool.’

‘That is for Heytesbury to decide,’ said Michael, bringing his ire under control and turning away from the infuriating young man. ‘Come on, Matt. We should go.’

‘I do not think you are a fool,’ Richard continued. ‘I always remembered you as a cunning sort of fellow. Then I saw through your little game.’

Michael stopped walking and gazed at Richard, but his beady glare broke when he sneezed, suddenly and violently. Agatha coughed meaningfully, and flapped her hand back and forth in front of her face.

‘Brother Michael is right,’ she declared. ‘You smell like a whore – although I do not know of any self-respecting women who would douse themselves in whatever stinking potion you have bathed yourself in.’

Richard looked her up and down with as much distaste as she had treated him. ‘Better that than reeking of old onions and garlic,’ he drawled.

Agatha advanced on him. ‘Old onions and garlic–’

‘Where is that sheet you had for Kyrkeby, Agatha?’ asked Bartholomew quickly. ‘The day is wearing on, and I am keen for the Dominicans to see the fine work you have done this morning. I imagine they will be very grateful to you.’

‘It is in my basket,’ said Agatha, easily diverted when told she could expect the praise of men like the Dominicans. ‘I will fetch it.’

‘Are you sure she is safe to be let loose in a small town like this?’ asked Richard, watching her large figure sway importantly up the aisle to where she had left her belongings.

‘She will rip you limb from limb if I ask her to,’ said Michael nastily. ‘So tell me what you meant when you said you had guessed my plan, or you shall see exactly how unsafe she can be.’

Richard glanced from Agatha to Michael and saw the cold fury in the monk’s eyes. He decided it was not worth taking the risk to see whether Michael was bluffing.

‘Heytesbury believes that you want to use the information he will give you to become the University’s next Chancellor. He thinks you will use the names of the wealthy, but anonymous, Oxford patrons that he will divulge to you to make sure that you are elected.’

Michael did not reply.

‘But I think there is another reason,’ Richard went on. ‘I think that you already know that one of the patrons is a man with large dairy farms, who is reputed to make the best cheese in the country. I think your motive lies entirely with your stomach!’

‘I have never heard such nonsense in my life,’ said Michael, shoving Richard out of the way as he started to walk towards the door. ‘I can assure you that my stomach has nothing to do with my arrangements with Heytesbury.’

‘It has!’ crowed Richard triumphantly. ‘You intend to dine on fine cheese, best butter and large brown eggs for the rest of your indulgent life.’

Bartholomew was thinking about something else Richard had said. ‘What did you mean earlier, when you said Heytesbury was lecturing this Sunday?’

‘Kyrkeby has not yet confirmed with the Chancellor that he still intends to speak,’ said Richard. ‘So, the Chancellor has been looking for a replacement.’

‘If Kyrkeby does speak, it will cause some raised eyebrows,’ muttered Agatha, walking towards them with a winding sheet clasped in one meaty hand. ‘And it will not be his clean hair and scrubbed fingernails that people will notice.’

‘Most scholars would be oblivious to the fact that they were receiving a lecture from a corpse,’ Cynric replied in an undertone. ‘I sometimes wonder whether half of them are dead anyway, but just do not know it.’

Agatha gave an inappropriate guffaw of laughter that echoed around the church and made everyone jump.

‘The Chancellor was in a quandary,’ Richard continued. ‘University lectures are important events, and he had no distinguished speaker for Easter Sunday. I recommended Heytesbury.’

‘You interfering little snake,’ hissed Michael furiously. ‘Heytesbury is England’s leading nominalist. The mere presence of such a man in the University church will incite a riot.’

‘Why?’ asked Richard smugly. ‘Is it because your scholars cannot trust their powers of reason and skills in rhetoric to win them the day?’

‘It is because Cambridge is a tinderbox at the moment,’ Michael almost shouted. ‘It is on the verge of serious unrest, and something like this could tip the balance. Do you really want to see the streets of the town where you were a child run with blood?’

Richard blanched, but remained defiant. ‘If they choose to use their fists rather than their wits, I cannot find it in my heart to mourn their fates.’

‘I am sure you cannot,’ said Michael coldly. ‘But I care little for what is in your heart. I care about the innocent people this will affect.’

‘I do not understand why you are in such a state about this,’ said Richard defensively. ‘Kyrkeby was going to speak on nominalism anyway, and the only difference is that your scholars will listen to a man whose logic is brilliant, instead of some bumbling old friar with bad teeth and no hair.’

‘Kyrkeby did not have bad teeth,’ said Bartholomew, startled. ‘And he had plenty of hair.’

‘Had?’ asked Richard. ‘What happened to it?’

Bartholomew gestured to the pale corpse, blotched and flaccid, that lay in the parish coffin. Agatha stepped past him and began to cover it with the sheet.

‘It is Kyrkeby,’ said Richard in horror, gazing down at the distorted features. ‘And he is dead!’

‘And you decided not to become a physician!’ muttered Michael. ‘With powers of observation like yours, the medical world should mourn such a dreadful loss.’

‘He is a funny colour,’ remarked Cynric, looking critically at Agatha’s handiwork. ‘What have you done to him?’

‘That is what happens when you spend two days in a wet, muddy hole after you are dead,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I can do something about the colour of him,’ said Agatha, treating Bartholomew to a conspiratorial wink. ‘I can make him look good enough to eat.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew nervously, not certain what she intended to do, but very certain that she should not be permitted to proceed.

Agatha tapped the side of her nose and gave him a significant glance. ‘Women know about these things. Just leave it to old Agatha.’

‘Wait,’ said Bartholomew, as her ponderous bulk began to move off down the aisle like a great ship leaving a harbour – stately and virtually unstoppable. ‘Do not–’

‘No wonder Kyrkeby did not contact the Chancellor,’ said Richard, when Bartholomew’s objections faltered away to silence. Agatha had decided she was going to act on whatever notion had sprung into her mind, and was underway.

‘When did Chancellor Tynkell become concerned that Kyrkeby had not confirmed his intention to lecture?’ demanded Michael of Richard. ‘He did not mention this to me.’

‘He said he did not want to bother you with administration when you were busy with murders,’ said Richard. ‘But he was worried last night – Wednesday – when Prior Morden informed him that Kyrkeby had gone missing. I happened to be on hand to solve his dilemma.’

‘What were you doing with Chancellor Tynkell?’ demanded Michael. ‘He is too busy to waste time on youths who believe that owning big black horses and an ear-ring make them respected members of the community.’

‘Be that as it may, but I did him and your University a favour last night,’ said Richard firmly. ‘It would have been difficult to find a replacement, given that Kyrkeby’s lecture is scheduled for three days’ time.’

‘It would not,’ argued Michael. ‘We have many skilled and distinguished speakers who are prepared to lecture at a moment’s notice.’

‘Name one,’ challenged Richard.

‘Your uncle,’ replied Michael promptly. ‘He is the University’s most senior master of medicine. Will you claim he is one of these old friars with no hair and poor teeth?’

The young lawyer tossed the end of his capuchin over his shoulder in a deliberately casual gesture and gave a careless smile. ‘I am sure he gives a fascinating account of lancing boils and examining urine. And he has fine hair and good teeth. But Heytesbury will talk about nominalism, not give some diatribe on pustules and amputation.’

Michael’s smile was suddenly wicked. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said, so abruptly acquiescent that Richard’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Has Heytesbury actually agreed to speak?’

‘Yes,’ said Richard. ‘It is all settled, so it is too late for you to interfere.’

‘I would not dream of it,’ said Michael, his grin widening. ‘I shall look forward very much to Master Heytesbury’s lecture on Sunday.’

‘Good,’ said Richard, giving a courtly bow before turning and strutting out of the church. The long points of his fashionable shoes flapped on the flagstones and his russet-red cloak billowed about his elegantly clad legs as he walked. One of the shoes caught in a crack and made him stumble, although his near fall did nothing to moderate his confident swagger.

‘What did Oxford do to him?’ asked Cynric. ‘No one in the town likes him any more. I wonder whether a witch put a spell on him. Perhaps I will make enquiries at the Franciscan Friary.’

‘Why there?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘The friars will not know any witches.’

‘But they know cures for curses,’ said Cynric. ‘They are very good with their remedies. Their rat poison is famous from here to Peterborough.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But killing rats and removing curses that make people unpleasant are scarcely the same thing.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Michael drolly. ‘Both rid the world of something we would rather be without.’

Bartholomew glanced at him. ‘Why were you suddenly so pleased to hear that Heytesbury’s lecture is now an immovable feature?’

‘The day that Faricius was stabbed – Saturday – Chancellor Tynkell told me he was worried that the subject of Kyrkeby’s lecture might cause further problems,’ began Michael.

‘Is that why Kyrkeby was killed, do you think?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing down at the grey body in the coffin. ‘Because he was going to talk about nominalism? Lord help us, Brother! We had better keep our opinions to ourselves in future, if holding controversial theories might result in our being stuffed in someone else’s tomb.’

‘Your interpretation of nominalism involves accelerating units and stable velocities,’ said Michael disparagingly. ‘No one is likely to become too excited about that. Kyrkeby, however, was more interested in how nominalism relates to the nature of God – that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit are in fact three names – nomen – for the same being. That would make Him a universal, and universals do not exist in the real sense.’

‘That would be contentious,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But not nearly as exciting as Heytesbury’s ideas on uniformly accelerated motion.’

‘Each to his own, Matt. But Chancellor Tynkell told me on Saturday that he was reconsidering whether to ask Kyrkeby to change the title of his lecture. Then, yesterday morning, Tynkell mentioned that he had made the decision to tell Kyrkeby that nominalism was banned. Tynkell, of course, did not know that Kyrkeby was missing, and so sent a note to the friary.’

‘Then Kyrkeby never received that letter,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He has been dead for two days – probably since Monday night, when he was first missed from his friary.’

‘So, he died still thinking that he was going to speak on nominalism,’ said Michael. ‘But I know that Tynkell was nervous about demanding a change in topics at such short notice, and his letter told Kyrkeby to confirm that he was happy with the new arrangements – hence Tynkell’s concern last night when he still had not heard, I imagine.’

‘A lecture takes a long time to prepare,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was unfair of Tynkell to expect Kyrkeby to talk about something completely different just like that.’

‘And that was exactly why he asked Kyrkeby to visit him, so that they could discuss it,’ said Michael. ‘But Tynkell thought he was doing Kyrkeby a favour, actually: everyone is so obsessed with the realism – nominalism debate at the moment, that Kyrkeby’s lecture would have had to be very good – and he was an adequate scholar at best.’

‘Why was he invited, then?’ asked Cynric bluntly. ‘I thought you had lots of brilliant scholars to choose from. At least, that is what you told Gold Ear.’

‘We do,’ said Michael. ‘But we were obliged to invite a Dominican to speak, because it is their turn. The Dominicans are short of brilliant scholars at the moment, and Kyrkeby was the best they could offer.’

‘So what did Tynkell suggest Kyrkeby should speak about instead of nominalism?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

Michael’s grin widened. ‘The possibility of life on other planets. And that is the lecture Heytesbury will be obliged to give. Can you imagine a great man like Heytesbury discussing such a ridiculous topic? And it was Richard who arranged it – he told us so himself! Gold Ear will not be popular when Heytesbury learns that he is obliged to talk about civilisation on Mars!’

While Bartholomew, Michael and Cynric waited impatiently, Agatha gave her undivided attention to Kyrkeby’s body, dipping frequently into a basket filled to the brim with mysterious phials and packages. When she finished, she covered the body with a sheet to protect it from the driving rain, but declined to allow them to inspect her handiwork, claiming that tampering with the sheet might spoil her efforts. Beadle Meadowman, who always seemed to be conveniently close when Michael needed him, took one corner of the coffin, while Cynric, Sergeant Orwelle from the Castle and Bartholomew took the other. Then Michael led the procession at a suitably sombre pace out of the church and towards the Dominican Friary on Hadstock Way.

‘This is rough wood,’ complained Orwelle, jiggling the coffin as he tried to find a better grip. ‘Can St Michael’s not afford a decent parish coffin? Lord knows, with you scholars murdering each other all the time, it would certainly get some use. I have a splinter already.’

‘A splinter?’ echoed Cynric in disbelief. ‘I thought you were at the battle of Crécy, lad. What is a splinter compared to arrows, lances and broadswords?’

‘I did not have to endure arrows, lances and broadswords,’ replied Orwelle tartly. ‘I was an archer. I shot at other people; they did not shoot at me. This splinter hurts!’

‘Brother Timothy was at Crécy,’ said Cynric admiringly.

‘He was a captain under the Black Prince, and apparently fought very bravely. That is why it is good that the University made him Junior Proctor: a post like that needs a soldier, not just a cleric.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Michael coolly, fixing Cynric with a look intended to remind him that some clerics made very good proctors.

‘Damn this useless chunk of wood!’ swore Cynric suddenly. ‘Now I have a splinter!’

‘Be quiet,’ ordered Michael. ‘The whole point of delaying the return of Kyrkeby’s body to the Dominicans was so that our respectful treatment of it will mollify them and prevent them from marching on the Carmelites. Do not spoil it by chattering like magpies as we walk.’

‘We were speaking softly,’ said Orwelle, stung. ‘And Kyrkeby would not have minded, anyway; he was a charming fellow. Not like that Richard Stanmore, who is too important to pass the time of day with the fathers of his old friends.’

‘Richard has only been home a few days, yet half the town seems to dislike him already,’ said Bartholomew, wishing his kinsman had made a more agreeable re-entry into Cambridge.

‘We do not like his horse, either,’ Orwelle went on. ‘It kicked over a meat stall in the Market Square yesterday, and this morning it bit the Franciscan Warden.’

‘Warden Pechem is back in Cambridge, is he?’ mused Michael. ‘Good. Now we can ask him why he attended Walcote’s meetings.’

‘Black Bishop bit Warden Pechem?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘What did Richard do?’

‘He told Pechem that if he wanted medical attention, he should summon you,’ replied Orwelle. ‘He said you would treat him free of charge, whereas Robin of Grantchester and Father Lynton of Peterhouse would make him pay.’

‘There is Master Kenyngham, free from his Easter vigil,’ said Michael suddenly, stopping the procession and pointing.

‘Speak to him about his role in these meetings now,’ advised Bartholomew, watching the familiar figure of the former Master of Michaelhouse walk dreamily along the High Street. Such was Kenyngham’s other-worldliness that Bartholomew noticed the hem of his pale habit was black with the mud through which he had unwittingly ploughed. ‘He may start another vigil, and you could find you have to wait until Easter Day for your information.’

‘Who is this?’ asked Kenyngham, looking at the coffin as he walked towards them. His halo of white fluffy hair blew gently in the wind, like a dandelion clock.

‘Kyrkeby of the Dominicans,’ said Michael. ‘Did you know him?’

Kenyngham nodded sadly. ‘I suppose his weak heart must have failed him. But he now rests with God, in a better place than us.’

‘He is in a cheap coffin covered with one of Agatha’s old sheets,’ said Orwelle, genuinely puzzled. ‘How is that better than us?’

‘I was referring to his soul,’ said Kenyngham mildly. ‘It is with God and His saints, which is where we will all be soon.’

‘Not too soon, I hope,’ muttered Cynric, indicating to the others that they should begin walking again and that Michael could catch them up when he had finished with Kenyngham.

But Kenyngham stood in front of them, inadvertently blocking their way so they were forced to stop, and then began a prayer that looked set to expand to a full requiem mass. Cynric and Meadowman shifted hands uncomfortably as the dead weight began to pull on their arms, and Bartholomew prodded Michael with his foot. Michael shrugged helplessly, not sure what to do in the face of such sincerity.

‘I am going to drop this,’ Orwelle said in a loud whisper. ‘Tell him to hurry.’

‘Prayers for the dead are our sacred duty,’ said Kenyngham gently, admonishing the impatient soldier. ‘We must never rush our time with God. But perhaps I should walk with you, and we can pray as we go.’

‘Good idea,’ said Michael quickly, taking his arm and pulling him forward. ‘Having you with us will certainly add favourably to the kind of impression I intend to make on the Dominicans. But first I would like to ask you some questions. You can pray in a moment.’

‘What sort of questions?’ asked Kenyngham nervously. ‘It is not about securing my vote for scouring the latrines twice a year instead of once, is it? That is for Matthew and Langelee to sort out between them.’

Michael raised an imperious finger to prevent Bartholomew from pursuing a matter that was very close to his heart – Michaelhouse’s drains were cleaner than most in Cambridge, but they still did not reach the physician’s exacting standards. ‘Why did you meet my Junior Proctor and others at St Radegund’s Convent?’ he demanded of Kenyngham.

Kenyngham stared at him. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘How I know is not important. What were you discussing that warranted you walking all the way out there in the dark? And why to such a place?’

Kenyngham shuddered. ‘It was like a foretaste of hell! I went perhaps five times, and on my last visit, that wicked woman tried to manhandle me.’

‘I heard about that,’ said Michael, and Bartholomew sensed he was struggling to maintain his sombre composure while his fertile imagination produced an image of Kenyngham wrestling with Tysilia. ‘But why were you there in the first place?’

‘I cannot tell you,’ said Kenyngham.

‘Why not?’ demanded Michael, peeved that Kenyngham should refuse to reveal what he was sure had a bearing on the case he was struggling to solve.

‘Because I promised I would not,’ said Kenyngham simply. ‘And now I must pray for–’

‘Walcote was murdered, Master Kenyngham,’ said Michael harshly. ‘Someone hanged him from a drainpipe. And in order to find out who did such a monstrous thing, and to prevent it from happening again, I need to know why you and various others met him at St Radegund’s.’

‘I took an oath,’ said Kenyngham. ‘I cannot reveal what I know, however much I may wish to.’

‘But there is a killer at large,’ protested Michael in frustration. ‘What is more important – your promise or a life?’

‘A promise before God is a sacred thing and cannot be broken,’ replied Kenyngham with finality. ‘And now, if you will forgive me, there is a soul that needs my attention.’ He clasped his hands, bowed his head and gave himself entirely to praying for Kyrkeby.

‘He is so annoying when he does that,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew irritably, casting a venomous glower at the saintly Gilbertine. ‘How can he expect me to stand by and see my colleagues slaughtered by some maniac, just because he has sworn an oath?’

‘We are here,’ said Bartholomew, looking up at the great gates of the Dominican Friary. ‘Perhaps now we shall have some answers. We can ask Morden about these meetings, since Kenyngham will not tell us.’

Michael rapped hard on the gate, until it was answered by a lay-brother, who immediately agreed to fetch his Prior when he saw what they had brought. They saw him intercept Morden on his way to the chapel, then watched the tiny Prior rush across the muddy yard towards them with Ringstead and Bulmer at his heels. Morden’s face turned white when he saw the coffin; meanwhile Kenyngham prayed on, oblivious to the consternation and alarm that was ballooning around him.

‘I am sorry,’ said Michael gently to Morden. ‘We discovered Kyrkeby late last night, and have had him at St Michael’s Church to pray for his soul ever since. As you can see, Master Kenyngham has been active on this front.’

‘But how did this happen?’ asked Morden, his elfin face shocked and wan. ‘Why?’

‘I do not know how or why,’ admitted Michael. ‘I really am terribly sorry.’

Morden moved to the coffin and pulled back the sheet to look at his Precentor’s face. ‘My God!’ he breathed in horror, dropping the cover quickly before his colleagues could see what was underneath. ‘Did you find him like this?’

‘Not quite,’ said Bartholomew, who had also glimpsed what Agatha had done to Kyrkeby. He was not surprised she had declined to show them her handiwork in the church. The dead man’s face was no longer grey and flat, but a lively assortment of colours. His cheeks had been carefully reddened with rouge, and his lips were verging on scarlet. His eyelids were blue, and even his nose had a curious orange glow to it.

‘I think it would be best if we took him to the chapel immediately,’ said Morden. He glanced anxiously at Bartholomew and the three pall-bearers. ‘Does anyone else know about this?’

‘Only us,’ said Michael.

‘Then perhaps we could keep it like that,’ said Morden. ‘He has done this before, you know.’

‘Done what before?’ asked Michael, bewildered. ‘Died?’

‘Put women’s paint on his face,’ said Morden in a whisper. ‘It was many years ago, and I thought he had put an end to such peculiarities. But it seems he has not.’

‘It was Agatha,’ began Bartholomew, not wanting poor Kyrkeby’s reputation sullied when he was not in a position to declare his innocence.

‘Who is Agatha?’ asked Morden. ‘A whore?’ He gave a sudden shudder. ‘No! Please do not tell me. It is better that I do not know.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘But Kyrkeby was found near the Carmelite Friary. Do you want to complain about that, or shall we keep it to ourselves for now?’

‘Do not tell me that the Carmelites saw him like this?’ whispered Morden in horror.

‘They did not,’ replied Michael truthfully. ‘But you can rest assured that I will do all in my power to discover how he died and why.’

‘I am not sure that would be best for our Order,’ said Morden nervously. ‘What do you plan to do? Ask around the vendors in the Market Square to ascertain which of them sold him the paints? I really would rather you did not.’

‘As you wish,’ said Michael smoothly. ‘I shall defer to you in that matter. But in return, I want certain questions answered.’

‘Very well,’ said Morden. He clasped Michael’s hand gratefully. ‘Thank you for what you have done, Brother – for tending Kyrkeby with such respect as well as for hiding him from prying eyes.’

‘Well,’ said Michael smiling in satisfaction as he watched Morden and his student-friars carry Kyrkeby to their chapel. ‘It seems we have averted a riot, Matt. The Dominicans will not march on the Carmelites today at least.’

‘Perhaps not, but word will soon spread that Kyrkeby was excavated from a tomb in the Carmelites’ graveyard. And then where will we be?’

‘That,’ said Michael complacently, ‘is a bridge we shall cross when we reach it.’

When Prior Morden had seen the body of his Precentor escorted to the chapel, Michael led the way to the small chamber that served as the Prior’s sleeping quarters and office. The monk thrust open the door with such vigour that it crashed against the wall with a sound like a thunderclap. Morden sighed irritably.

‘I wish you would not do that, Brother. Every time you visit my friary, I am obliged to repaint part of the wall.’ He bent to inspect the damage, clicking his tongue over the flakes of plaster that fell to the ground.

‘How long do you think Master Kenyngham will stay?’ asked Ringstead worriedly. In the chapel below, Kenyngham’s voice rose in an ecstasy of prayer. ‘We appreciate his concern, but we have friars of our own to say masses for Kyrkeby. I told him this, but he did not seem to hear.’

‘Kenyngham hears very little once he is into the business of praying,’ agreed Michael. ‘But if he is still here when we leave, we will try to take him with us.’

‘Good,’ said Morden, leaving the door and clambering into the large chair behind the table, to sit with his short legs swinging in the air. ‘He is a saintly man, but I do not want members of other Orders inside our grounds at the moment. The different sects have never been easy in each other’s company, but I am sure you have noticed matters have been worse recently.’

‘It is because it is Lent, and spring is a long time in coming,’ supplied Ringstead helpfully. ‘And because this realism – nominalism debate has everyone agitated.’

‘It is the Carmelites who exacerbated that,’ said Morden disapprovingly. ‘We might have all agreed to differ if Lincolne had not been so aggressive and dogmatic.’

‘He is a fanatic,’ said Ringstead, just in case Bartholomew and Michael had not noticed. ‘He gives the impression that he would defend realism to the death. I am not entirely convinced that nominalism provides all the answers, but his very attitude makes me want to oppose him.’

‘Quite, quite,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But we should not be discussing philosophy when your Precentor lies dead. I need to ask some questions. Did he own a purse or a scrip?’

‘He had a leather scrip, as do we all,’ said Morden, pulling a tiny one from his belt and showing it to Michael. It looked like something a child might carry. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘We did not find one with his body, and we need to know whether it was stolen,’ said Michael. ‘Is there anything distinctive about this scrip? Was it patterned in a particular way?’

‘No,’ said Morden immediately.

‘Yes,’ said Ringstead at the same time.

Michael raised his eyebrows, and treated Morden to the kind of glance that was intended to remind him that a favour had been granted, but could just as easily be withdrawn. The tiny Dominican swallowed hard, then gestured for Ringstead to speak.

‘Kyrkeby’s scrip was of a very delicate design,’ said Ringstead. ‘You can see that ours are plain, but his was patterned with flowers and butterflies.’

‘Flowers and butterflies?’ asked Michael, startled. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, I imagine that will not be too difficult to identify!’

‘It was more like something a woman would own than the scrip of a friar,’ elaborated Ringstead. He saw Morden gesticulating not to give away more than was necessary, but went on angrily. ‘They already know about the face paint, Father Prior, so it cannot matter if they know about the scrip, too. Besides, we all want to know why he died.’

Morden sighed. ‘Then I hope you will be discreet with this knowledge, Brother Michael. Kyrkeby liked pretty things. He had jewellery, too.’

‘I thought Dominicans were sworn to poverty,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about the fine collection of crosses and rings that Ringstead had shown them when Kyrkeby was first reported missing. ‘Why did your Order allow him to own such things?’

Morden spread his hands and gave a sickly smile. ‘St Dominic did not intend us to live in poverty in a literal sense. He merely intended that we be aware of the dangers of earthly possessions, and that we eat bread and water from time to time.’

‘I see,’ said Michael wryly. ‘That is the most conveniently liberal interpretation of St Dominic’s Rule that I have ever heard. But let us return to Kyrkeby. Do you think he may have been wearing any of these rings when he died? It is important to know whether any are missing.’

‘You have already looked at his possessions,’ Ringstead pointed out. ‘And I have already told you that I do not know whether anything has gone.’

‘But I might,’ said Morden tiredly. ‘Fetch them, Ringstead, if you please.’

Ringstead left to do his bidding, while Bartholomew sat in a seat in the window and stared across the Dominicans’ yard. The rain had stopped, but there were deep puddles everywhere, the surfaces of which wrinkled and shivered as the breeze played across them. He turned when he heard a soft tap at the door, and was surprised to see Clippesby ease himself through it.

The recent unrest had told on the Michaelhouse Fellow. His hair stood up in a wild halo around his tonsure, and Bartholomew suspected that he had been tearing at it. His eyes seemed unfocused, and he wore the serene smile that usually preceded some of his more peculiar antics. The scholars at Michaelhouse were growing used to Clippesby’s eccentricities, and many of the students and masters barely noticed them any more. But the friary was less tolerant, and Bartholomew had the impression that they would have been happier if Clippesby did not pay them such regular visits.

‘What are you doing here, Clippesby?’ demanded Morden, none too pleasantly. ‘Do not tell me that the pig has been giving you its philosophical opinions again?’

Clippesby smiled, his peculiar eyes shifty. ‘The pig is convinced that nominalism is a more rational theory. She is a true Dominican in her beliefs.’

If Bartholomew had not known that Clippesby was verging on insanity, he would have suspected the man of playing a game with Morden. But Clippesby’s face was a picture of earnest innocence and there was no humour there. Bartholomew heard Michael give a snort of laughter.

‘What do you want, then?’ snapped Morden, glaring at Michael as well as Clippesby. ‘Can you not see that I am busy?’

‘I came to tell you that someone has put paint all over poor Kyrkeby’s face,’ said Clippesby helpfully. ‘Someone has made him look like a prostitute.’

‘You can take him with you when you go, as well as Kenyngham,’ said Morden nastily to Michael. ‘I will not allow the Dominican Friary to become a venue for Michaelhouse eccentrics, who are probably here only because Michaelhouse is too poor to afford fires.’

‘Michaelhouse is a cold place,’ agreed Clippesby. ‘But that will not matter soon.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘You are not thinking of setting it alight, are you? I know that would solve our heating problems, but it would also render us all homeless.’

Clippesby glared at him. ‘Do you think I am mad; that I would do something to damage the place where I live? All I am saying is that this cold weather will break in three days, and that Easter will be sunny and warm.’

‘Really,’ said Morden flatly. ‘And how do you know this?’

‘My voices told me,’ said Clippesby serenely. ‘And the river ducks confirmed it this morning.’

‘The man believes he is St Francis of Assisi,’ muttered Morden, regarding Clippesby as he might something he had trodden in on the High Street. ‘Can you not lock him away, Brother? I do not think he should be allowed to roam where he pleases. He may do himself some harm – and he is a danger to those on whom he foists his peculiar ideas.’

‘I am not some dog to be tethered just because you are too insensitive to hear the sounds of nature,’ said Clippesby angrily. ‘You are so ensconced in your own troubles and your own comforts, that you cannot hear the Earth speaking to you.’

‘Hello, Clippesby,’ said Ringstead pleasantly, entering the chamber again with a huge armful of clothes and Kyrkeby’s chest. ‘You were wrong about the cow, by the way. She did not have twins.’

‘But she told me she would,’ said Clippesby, puzzled.

‘Are these Kyrkeby’s belongings?’ asked Michael, changing the subject from one that promised to be increasingly bizarre, if Clippesby were to play a part in it. ‘Can you tell if there is anything missing, Prior Morden?’

‘His scrip is not here,’ said Ringstead, watching Morden sift through Kyrkeby’s jewellery with predatory eyes. ‘I should have noticed it was missing when you last came.’

‘Then we must assume it was stolen,’ said Michael. ‘Has anything else gone?’

Morden selected an emerald ring and held it up to the light. It was huge in his tiny hands. ‘This is nice. It is a pity it is so large.’

‘It is not too large for me,’ said Ringstead, slipping it on to his middle finger and admiring it.

‘It looks valuable,’ said Michael, taking Ringstead’s hand and inspecting the jewel minutely. ‘Many people would commit murder in order to get something like this.’

‘Murder?’ echoed Ringstead, startled and pulling his arm away from Michael. ‘Are you telling us that Kyrkeby was murdered?’

‘The Carmelites!’ exclaimed Morden, outrage mounting. ‘They did it – not for a ring, but to avenge themselves for Faricius’s death, despite the fact that we are totally innocent of it.’

‘Our students will riot when they hear about this,’ vowed Ringstead. ‘They will tear down the Carmelite Friary stone by stone!’

Michael gave a heartfelt sigh of irritation. ‘There is no evidence that anyone murdered Kyrkeby. And I thought you wanted to keep the details of his death to yourselves. Do you really want to accuse the Carmelites of murder, and have it revealed that your Precentor died decorated like a whore?’

Morden swallowed hard. ‘Of course not. But at the same time, we cannot stand by and see one of our most beloved masters killed in cold blood and do nothing about it.’

‘No one is asking you to do nothing,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘You are helping the proctors to investigate, which is the best way to establish what really happened.’

‘Kyrkeby was a dull man,’ announced Clippesby bluntly. ‘He was not the kind of person anyone would want to kill, even if he did paint his face. Are you sure he was murdered?’

‘It is possible,’ said Michael calmly, as though he were discussing the weather and not the brutal death of the Dominicans’ second-in-command. ‘As I said, I intend to discover how he died and why, which I can only do if you co-operate. Now, was Kyrkeby involved in anything we should know about?’

‘No,’ said Morden. He closed his eyes for a moment, deep in thought, and then shook his head. ‘No. His main task was ensuring the proper liturgy was chanted in our offices, and he seldom left the friary, except to go to church.’

‘And you say that nothing, other than his scrip, is missing from his belongings?’ pressed Michael.

Morden sighed. ‘I cannot be certain, but I thought he had more rings than this. One or two may be missing.’

‘He must have been wearing them, then,’ reasoned Michael.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Morden, bitterly. ‘He was probably wearing them when he painted his face to make himself look like a woman.’

‘When precisely did you last see him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You said he was supposed to supervise the students on Saturday when they marched on the Carmelites, but that he was avoiding his duties because he wanted to spend more time on his lecture. When was he first missed?’

‘Monday evening,’ said Ringstead. ‘You had been tending him all that afternoon, and at dinnertime – after you had gone – I took him a bowl of soup. He was not in his room, and I could not find him anywhere in the friary. I was worried, because I could not understand why he had abandoned his lecture so suddenly – especially since it was going so well.’

‘No one here recalls seeing him after dusk on Monday,’ summarised Morden. ‘I suppose he must have slipped out when no one was looking.’

‘That makes him sound furtive,’ pounced Michael. ‘Why do you say he “slipped” out?’

Morden gave an expressive shrug. ‘It seems he “slipped” out to indulge his inclination to daub himself with women’s paints, Brother. How else would you have me put it?’

‘The Chancellor was concerned about the subject matter of Kyrkeby’s lecture,’ said Michael cautiously. ‘Have you heard anything about this?’

‘No,’ replied Morden. ‘But I can see why. Realists are narrow-minded bigots, who would have been unwilling to listen to what Kyrkeby had to say.’

‘Very likely,’ said Michael. ‘And so Chancellor Tynkell decided to change the title of the lecture to that of life on other planets. You know nothing about this, you say?’

‘That must be the letter waiting for Kyrkeby in the chapter house,’ said Ringstead, looking at his Prior. ‘It arrived yesterday, and we wondered what it was about.’

‘None of you opened it?’ asked Michael.

‘Of course not,’ said Morden, offended. ‘That would have been most improper.’

‘It is a pity no one will ever hear Kyrkeby talking about nominalism,’ said Ringstead loyally. He paled suddenly as a thought occurred to him. ‘But what shall we do about that? We Dominicans are supposed to give the University Lecture, and now that Kyrkeby is dead, we shall have to find a replacement!’

‘Lord!’ breathed Morden in alarm. ‘We do not have anyone else who can give such a lecture – on nominalism, life on Venus or anything else! We need more time to prepare.’

‘A replacement has already been appointed,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘Tynkell invited someone else to take Kyrkeby’s place when he failed to acknowledge Tynkell’s letter.’

‘Do you know anything about an essay on nominalism?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking about Faricius. ‘We believe one of the Carmelites may have been writing one, but it has disappeared.’

‘A Carmelite?’ asked Morden in surprise. ‘But they follow the heretical and outdated principles of realism.’

‘Not all of them,’ said Michael. ‘Just as I imagine that not all Dominicans are nominalists. There are exceptions.’

‘I doubt any Dominican would be foolish enough to believe in realism,’ said Morden superiorly. He glanced covertly at Clippesby, as if expecting him to announce that he did, but the Michaelhouse man was silent, staring at the flames that burned in Morden’s large hearth. ‘But it is possible that the odd Carmelite may have seen the light, I suppose.’

‘I know of no Carmelite essay, though,’ said Ringstead. ‘We use William Heytesbury’s books for our lectures, not essays by unknown authors.’

‘Thank you for your help,’ said Michael, preparing to leave. He exchanged a glance with Bartholomew, who knew he wanted to quiz Morden about his nocturnal meetings at St Radegund’s Convent but was reluctant to broach the subject and risk alerting Morden that he was investigating them. Bartholomew racked his brain for ways to introduce the topic, but Michael gave a small shake of his head, afraid that Morden would simply deny the accusation and promptly warn his associates that the Senior Proctor had wind of their dealings.

‘Do not forget to collect Master Kenyngham on your way out,’ said Morden, scrambling down from his chair to prevent Michael from opening the door. He was too late, and it crashed against the wall, so hard that he winced. ‘And take Clippesby with you, too.’

‘I am leaving now anyway,’ said Clippesby, following Michael. ‘It is kind of you to be concerned for my safety in these times of unrest, Father Prior, but you have no need to worry.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Morden, clearly not at all interested in Clippesby’s well-being.

‘I often walk alone,’ Clippesby went on. ‘You and I are much alike in that respect.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Morden uneasily. ‘I do not wander the town unaccompanied. I always take a servant with me.’

‘Not always,’ corrected Clippesby, sounding surprised by the assertion. ‘Sometimes you go alone. For example, I have seen you several times on the Barnwell Causeway at night.’

Michael closed his eyes in exasperation. He had decided that to interrogate Morden about the meetings might prove detrimental to the case, and the last thing he wanted was for the insane Clippesby to be conducting the interview.

But Clippesby was oblivious to the foul looks shot his way by both the Prior and Michael, although their disapproval was for very different reasons. ‘You walked to St Radegund’s Convent, where you met your friends,’ he said.

‘And which particular animal told you this?’ asked Ringstead unpleasantly. ‘An owl? Or do creatures who spy on men in the night tend towards slugs and bats and other unclean beasts?’

‘No animal told me,’ said Clippesby, offended. ‘I saw him myself. He met Prior Ralph from Barnwell and old Adam from Ely Hall, and they went into St Radegund’s Convent together.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael mildly, realising that it would look suspicious not to persist with the query now that Clippesby had raised the issue. ‘And what were you doing there, Prior Morden?’

‘If you must know, I had business with Walcote, your Junior Proctor.’

‘And what business would that be?’ pressed Michael.

‘I cannot tell you,’ said Morden, folding his small arms and looking away, signifying that he had said all he was going to on the matter.

Michael had other ideas. ‘You can tell me. Or the Carmelites might discover what passed in the Dominican Friary involving certain face paints.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Morden in horror. He glowered at Clippesby, seeing in the Michaelhouse man the reason for his awkward situation. ‘But this is blackmail!’

‘My Junior Proctor was murdered, Prior Morden,’ said Michael coldly. ‘I will do whatever it takes to catch the person who did it, and if that includes telling the Carmelites that the Dominicans like to paint their faces, then so be it.’

Morden closed his eyes in resignation. ‘Very well. But you will not like what I have to say.’

‘Probably not,’ said Michael. ‘But you will tell me anyway.’

Morden sighed. ‘I met three or four times with your Junior Proctor. Prior Ralph and some of his colleagues were there and once – in December – so was Brother Adam from Ely Hall.’

‘Did Master Kenyngham of Michaelhouse ever go?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘No Gilbertines were invited. And no Franciscans or Carmelites, either. Doubtless Walcote only wanted civilised company.’

‘And what did you talk about?’ asked Michael.

‘We discussed the validity of nominalism, among other things. We all believe it to be the superior philosophical theory.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I know many Benedictines and Austin canons concur with you on that. But why did you go to St Radegund’s in the middle of the night to discuss it? What was wrong with a lecture hall in the day?’

‘We discussed other matters, too,’ said Morden. He licked his lips, and glanced at the others. Ringstead, it seemed, was as curious as the others to learn what his Prior did at a place like St Radegund’s Convent at the witching hour.

‘Like what?’ pressed Michael.

‘Murder,’ said Morden in a low voice. ‘We discussed murder.’

‘Now we are getting somewhere,’ said Michael. ‘Whose murder?’

‘Yours, Brother,’ replied Morden.

‘I confess Morden’s claim unsettled me at first,’ said Michael, taking his place at the high table in Michaelhouse’s hall for dinner that night. ‘But on reflection, I think there is no need to worry.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘And how did you reach that conclusion, Brother?’

‘According to Morden, Walcote learned about the plan to kill me in December, but I am still here. Whoever it is must have given up the idea.’

‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Bartholomew, worried. ‘Walcote is dead, and we cannot be sure that he was not murdered because he was close to exposing this plot.’

‘It is also possible that he was murdered for the contents of his purse,’ said Michael practically. ‘I walked to Barnwell Priory this afternoon, and Nicholas identified the purse Orwelle found. He told me there was a small imperfection in its drawstrings, and when I looked I saw that he was right.’

‘But Walcote carried that cheap purse because he collected penny fines,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Why rob him?’

‘For people with nothing, any purse is worth stealing.’

Bartholomew wavered, knowing that Michael was right on that score. But he still believed that hanging suggested a degree of premeditation, and imagined that most robbers would prefer the speed and silence of a blade.

‘Did you see Matilde when you went to St Radegund’s this afternoon?’ asked Michael, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Has she learned anything more about these secret meetings at which my murder was discussed?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But I told her what Morden had claimed, and she warned you to be careful. That is good advice, Brother.’

Michael waved a dismissive hand, indicating that he thought their fears groundless. ‘Is she still convinced that there is more to Tysilia than the body of a goddess with no brains?’

‘Apparently, she spent the whole morning trying to teach Tysilia how to hoe. It is not difficult: a child could do it. Tysilia could not, however, and repeatedly raked out seedlings instead of weeds. When Eve Wasteneys saw that Tysilia was incapable of hoeing, she was sent to work in the kitchens instead.’

‘So?’ asked Michael.

‘So, the weather was cold and wet. Matilde believed Tysilia was only pretending to be inept, so that she would not have to be outside. It worked: Tysilia spent the rest of the morning in a warm kitchen, while everyone else was out in the rain. Matilde considered this evidence of Tysilia’s cunning.’

‘It could equally be evidence that Tysilia has an inability to learn,’ said Michael. ‘However, the Bishop is a clever man, and it is difficult to imagine him siring a child who is quite so dense.’

‘Thomas de Lisle sired Tysilia?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘You told me she is his niece.’

‘Did I say sired?’ asked Michael. He blew out his cheeks. ‘Damn! I must be more careful in future. De Lisle certainly does not want her to know the identity of her father, and it is not good for bishops to have illegitimate children in tow.’

‘I should think not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But if Matilde and I are right about Tysilia, then she may very well know something about this plot to kill you. Perhaps she was the one who devised it in the first place.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Michael. ‘Why would she do something like that? I am her father’s best agent, and she has no reason to wish me harm.’

‘If she is as clever as Matilde believes, then perhaps the plot is her way of striking at Bishop de Lisle. Or perhaps she wants to take your place, and become as indispensable to him as you are.’

‘This is pure fantasy, Matt. You and Matilde seem to find it difficult to believe that some people – even women – are very stupid. You are quite wrong about Tysilia.’ He sniffed the air suddenly, and groaned. ‘Oh, Lord, Matt! Dinner is more of that stinking fish-giblet stew again! Not only is it freezing cold in this godforsaken place, but we are forced to eat stewed fish entrails and yesterday’s bread.’

‘Delicious,’ boomed Father William, rubbing his hands together as he came to sit next to them. ‘Lent is my favourite time of year. Sinful practices like over-indulgence and fornication are forbidden, there are none of those reeking flowers in the church to distract you from your prayers, and there are no frills and such nonsense adorning your altars. And yet we are still treated to tasty delicacies like fish-giblet stew.’

‘And we think Clippesby is insane!’ muttered Michael, eyeing the dirty friar doubtfully. ‘Anyone who thinks boiled fish intestines in watery broth is the ultimate dining experience should be locked away.’

‘Where is Langelee?’ demanded the Franciscan, looking around him as if he imagined the Master would suddenly appear out of the rushes that were scattered across the floor. ‘We cannot start the meal until he has said grace.’

‘He is not a great lover of fish, and so probably feels no great compunction to hurry here,’ said the Carmelite Suttone, scratching his short white hair with his large-knuckled fingers. ‘He is talking to Clippesby, anyway.’

‘Clippesby,’ said William in disapproval. ‘I caught him pulling the tail feathers from the porter’s cockerel this afternoon. He said Cynric told him that burning them in a dish with a mixture of mint leaves and garlic has the power to remove curses. And he claimed that Cynric had this information from Prior Pechem.’

‘The head of the Franciscans?’ asked Michael gleefully. ‘That sounds like heresy to me, William. Removing curses with feathers and garlic indeed!’

‘Cynric misheard,’ stated William immediately. ‘Assuming that Clippesby even had half the story right, that is.’

‘Clippesby puzzles me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Sometimes he seems quite normal, and yet other times he indulges in these peculiarities of behaviour. I do not understand him at all.’

‘That is because he is insane,’ stated William uncompromisingly. ‘The whole point about insane people is that their actions are incomprehensible by those of us who are normal.’

‘But on occasions, what he says makes perfect sense, and his opinions are worth listening to.’

‘Only if you are insane yourself,’ said William firmly. He glanced at the door at the end of the hall, then at the painted screen near the spiral staircase that led to the kitchens. Behind it, the servants were waiting with the food in huge steaming cauldrons. ‘I wish Langelee would hurry up. The soup is getting cold.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘The longer that abomination is kept from our tables, the better. And if we sit here long enough, it will be time for breakfast. Lukewarm oatmeal is not my favourite, either, but I would sooner eat that than rancid fish guts floating in greasy water.’

Bartholomew saw Suttone wince at the description. One or two students, sitting at the tables placed at right angles to the one where the fellows ate, also heard, and Bartholomew could see them reconsidering their options for dining that night. Since Langelee had been made Master, it had become much more difficult for the students to slip out of the College for a night in the town, but they were encouraged to lay in their own supplies of food, called ‘smalls’. This had the advantage of saving Michaelhouse a certain amount of money and it prevented the students from wanting to eat in taverns.

‘Have you caught your murderer, Michael?’ asked William conversationally, picking at a lump of old food that adhered to the front of his habit. When it was off, yet another dark spot joined the multicoloured speckling on the Franciscan’s chest. ‘My offer of help is still open, you know.’

‘Thank you,’ said Michael politely. ‘It is good to know who one’s friends are these days.’

He raised his voice so that it would carry to Kenyngham, who was already muttering his own, much longer, version of grace, and who was oblivious of any meaningful comments or looks from the monk who sat to his right.

‘I said, it is good to know who one’s friends are these days,’ said Michael, more loudly still. This time, even Kenyngham was among those who looked at him in surprise, startled by the sudden volume in the monk’s voice.

‘Are you addressing me, Brother?’ asked Kenyngham, smiling in his absent-minded way. ‘Are you in need of a friend? Join me after the meal, and we will pray together.’

‘I certainly am in need of friends,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘And I do not count those who attend secret meetings at midnight, where plots to kill me are discussed.’

Kenyngham regarded him sympathetically. ‘Who has done that? You should inform him that he will be bound for hell if he continues, and that to take the life of another is a deadly sin.’

Michael gaped in disbelief. ‘You are a cool fellow, Father. I understand that you attended several such meetings. This plot was discussed at St Radegund’s Convent, when men such as Morden, Pechem and Lincolne – and you, of course – were present.’

‘Not Pechem,’ said William immediately. ‘We Franciscans do not do things like that.’

‘And not me, either,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Really, Brother! Do you imagine that I would allow such a discussion to take place? You know how I abhor violence. I can assure you that the meetings I attended made no mention of any such topic.’

‘Morden says Walcote had uncovered a plot to kill me, and that was on the agenda at these gatherings,’ said Michael angrily.

‘I attended no meeting with Morden,’ said Kenyngham. ‘The only people present, other than Walcote and me, were Pechem and Lincolne. And we certainly did not discuss murder.’

Michael sighed in exasperation. ‘Then tell me what you did talk about.’

‘I have already explained to you that I cannot. Please do not ask me to break my promise again. Come with me to the church after dinner, and we will pray together for God to give you patience.’

‘I am going nowhere with you,’ said Michael, giving the old friar a hostile glare. ‘You are not to be trusted.’

At that moment, Langelee entered the hall, and everyone stood in silence with his hands clasped in front of him waiting for the Master to begin the grace. Clippesby was with Langelee, and Bartholomew noticed that the mad Dominican’s face was flushed and his eyes were bright, which were symptoms the physician associated with episodes of especially odd behaviour. His heart sank, knowing that it would not be long before Langelee would be forced to confine Clippesby to his room until the mood had passed.

Langelee reached the Master’s chair, said a short prayer in his strong, steady voice, and had already seated himself before most of his scholars had completed their responses. He reached for the wine jug and filled his goblet. He then took a deep draught, as though the bitter, acidic drink was something to which he had been looking forward all day. The low hum of conversation restarted in the hall as he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes in grateful appreciation.

‘Master!’ whispered William in a hoarse voice, loud enough to carry to the far end of the hall. ‘The Bible Scholar!’

‘What?’ asked Langelee wearily. ‘Oh, yes.’ He gave a halfhearted nod to the student who received a free education in exchange for reading from the Bible at each meal. The practice was intended to give the scholars cause for contemplation while they were eating, and to dispense with the need for frivolous conversation. It was something of which the austere Father William very much approved, but which the rest of the Fellows preferred to do without, especially in the evenings when they were tired.

The student stood on the dais next to the high table, and began to read from the Book of Isaiah in a droning, bored voice. His phrasing was automatic, and Bartholomew suspected that his thoughts were as far away as those of most of his listeners. Michael turned his attention to the pale grey broth that was slopped into the bowl in front of him. He took a piece of bread, and dipped it in the mixture without much enthusiasm, chewing it as though it were wood chippings.

Bartholomew did not blame him. He did not like fishy soup either, especially since his knowledge of anatomy allowed him to identify particular organs and their functions. The fact that the entrails had not been fresh when they were purchased, and tasted strong and slightly gamy, did not induce many scholars to finish what they had been given. Bartholomew took one mouthful and decided he would rather go without, wondering absently whether the seed cake his sister had given him was still in his room, or whether Michael had already found it.

‘God’s teeth! This is a vile concoction!’ exclaimed Langelee, pushing away his bowl in disgust. He stood abruptly, and rattled off a closing grace, even though some of the students had still not been served. ‘Goodnight, gentlemen. I hope your supper does not give you nightmares.’

‘Well!’ said William, as Langelee exited from the hall, leaving the Bible Scholar in open-mouthed confusion. ‘There is a man who does not appreciate a good meal.’

‘Then you can have mine, too,’ said Michael, standing and emptying the grey liquid from his bowl into William’s. Some of the resulting spillage shot across the table towards the friar’s filthy sleeve. Bartholomew was fascinated to see that the deeply impregnated grease in the garment was easily able to repel the soup, and that it simply ran off like water from a duck’s back. ‘I would sooner starve than eat this.’

‘It will be a long time before you starve,’ said William, eyeing Michael up and down critically. ‘You will be able to live off that fat for years.’

Michael glowered at him and stalked towards the door. Bartholomew followed, no more keen to sit in a cold hall that was full of the rank stench of rotten fish than was the monk. Other scholars were also taking advantage of the abrupt end to the meal, and the servants had even started to clear away bowls and goblets, anticipating with pleasure the treat of an early finish.

‘What is it that makes everyone want to comment on my figure?’ Michael demanded of Bartholomew. ‘Do people not realise that it is rude? Even people I barely know talk about it – like your nephew, and that Ringstead at the Dominican Friary. I am growing heartily tired of it.’

‘Eat less, then,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘The reason people comment is because you are an imposing sight. There are not many people your size in Cambridge.’

‘I am not that big,’ objected Michael. ‘And it is mostly muscle anyway. Just look at this. Grab it, go on.’ He flexed an arm for Bartholomew to feel.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Bartholomew, declining the offer. He had witnessed the previous night that the monk was sufficiently strong to break the leg of a corpse, and knew that his bulk belied an impressive power.

‘And if I am heavy, it is because I have big bones,’ said Michael sulkily. ‘I am not as fat as people believe.’

‘It is partly your habit,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing the black garment critically. ‘It makes you look enormous.’

‘That is an unkind thing to say,’ said Michael huffily. ‘What do you expect me to do? I can hardly go to my Bishop and tell him that I no longer intend to wear the Benedictine habit because it makes me look fat.’

‘Do not take it so personally,’ said Bartholomew. ‘People are always criticising me because my clothes are soiled or torn. I just ignore them.’

‘I shall punch the next person who calls me fat,’ vowed Michael angrily, marching down the newel stair that led to the lower floor and heading for the door that opened into the yard. ‘And that includes you, so just mind yourself.’

‘We should probably visit Prior Pechem of the Franciscans tonight,’ said Bartholomew, changing the subject, but not in the least intimidated by Michael’s bluster. ‘We need to ask him about his role at Walcote’s meetings. Now that Morden – and Kenyngham – know we are aware of these gatherings, there is no need for us to worry about putting them on their guard. They will already have been warned, and our enquiries can do no harm.’

‘I have already spoken to Pechem,’ said Michael irritably. ‘Since Clippesby introduced the subject so tactlessly with Morden, I decided there was nothing to lose by approaching Pechem directly.’

‘And?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What did he say?’

‘He pretended he did not know what I was talking about, and said he had never been to St Radegund’s in his life. More lies, Matt. Just when we force the Carmelites to be honest, the Franciscans start bombarding me with falsehoods.’

‘Ah, Michael and Bartholomew. Just the men I wanted to see.’ Langelee was approaching the door from the darkness outside. ‘I would like to speak to you. Join me in my chamber, if you will.’

‘Why?’ demanded Michael irritably. ‘It has been a long day and I am tired. All I want to do is go to bed and forget about that monstrosity that paraded itself as dinner.’

‘Then that is even more reason why you should come to my chamber,’ said Langelee, laying a meaty arm across Michael’s shoulders. ‘A beef and onion pie, a barrel of French wine, and a couple of loaves of fresh bread are waiting there.’

Michael eyed him suspiciously. ‘Why? So you can laugh about the amount I eat and tell everyone that I have a stomach like a bottomless well?’

‘Do you eat a lot?’ asked Langelee, genuinely surprised. ‘I cannot say I have noticed. But you and I are both large men, so healthy appetites are to be expected. Come and join me in my room, and we will do justice to this fine food. What do you say?’

Michael gazed at him. ‘What kind of pie did you say it was?’