An Order for Death (18 page)

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

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

‘I will do it,’ offered Tysilia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Mabel,’ corrected the Prioress.

*   *   *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Surely she cannot be that bad,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She is something of a liability, actually,’ said Eve. ‘And not only is
she difficult to control, but she is a thief.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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