An Order for Death (29 page)

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

I
T 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.