An Order for Death (33 page)

‘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.