An Order for Death (21 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I will make sure that does not happen.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Of course not, but—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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