An Order for Death (22 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael started to laugh. ‘Are you serious?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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