An Order for Death (36 page)

‘Ah, Bartholomew! At last!’ came a voice from under the bed-covers. Bartholomew jumped, because he had imagined the room was
empty. ‘That horse has done me some serious harm.’

‘So I understand,’ said Bartholomew, advancing on the mountain of furs and peering over them, to see if he could detect the
owner of the voice.

‘Young Stanmore promised you would not charge me for your services,’ said Pechem, as Bartholomew continued to hunt for him.
‘I plan to hold him to that – and you.’

‘As you wish,’ said Bartholomew, tentatively removing one fur, only to find another beneath it. ‘Perhaps you will show me
the damage, so that I might examine it.’

He started backward as an arm shot though the covers, although there was still no sign of its owner’s face. He supposed that
avoiding eye contact was the Warden’s way of approaching what might prove to be an uncomfortable interview. He perched on
the edge of the bed and began to unravel the crude bandage that someone had wrapped around the afflicted limb. After some
moments, during which the chamber was still and the only sound was the distant hum of prayers coming from the tiny chapel
across the courtyard, Bartholomew removed the bindings to reveal a hand in which the impression of a large set of equine teeth
was clearly etched.

‘This is not too bad,’ he said, rinsing away dried blood with water from a bowl on the table. ‘I have a salve of garlic and
marsh-mallow that will ease the pain and encourage healing. You should have called me earlier, though. Bites have a nasty
habit of festering unless treated quickly.’

‘I have never been bitten by a horse before,’ came the muffled voice. ‘And our herbalist confessed he was uncertain about
which of his potions to use.’

‘Not his rat poison,’ said Bartholomew, in a feeble attempt
at levity. ‘Did you know that particular poison is famed from here to Peterborough?’

Pechem chuckled appreciatively. ‘I am gratified. Rats can be a serious problem.’

He was silent while Bartholomew continued to clean the wound, and the only sign that the physician was tending a whole person
and not merely an arm was when he touched a tender part, and the hand flinched.

‘Your book-bearer, Cynric, came to us earlier today,’ said Pechem, after a while, evidently deciding he needed something to
take his mind away from the uncomfortable operation that was taking place outside his line of vision. ‘He wanted to know how
a curse might be lifted. I was inclined to dismiss him, because we are not in the habit of dabbling in that sort of thing,
but then he told me who the cure was for.’

‘Richard,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Richard,’ agreed Pechem. ‘I told him to burn the feathers of a pheasant with mint and garlic, say three Ave Marias and then
give a groat to the church of his choice. That should see Richard restored to his former likeable disposition.’

‘Do the feathers need to belong to a pheasant?’ asked Bartholomew recalling Langelee’s bemusement when Clippesby – evidently
under Cynric’s instructions – had caught the porter’s bird. ‘Or will a cockerel do?’

‘I really have no idea,’ said Pechem. ‘It was something I saw written in one of our more secular books once. Let me know what
happens, will you? If it is effective, there are others I would like to see rendered a little more agreeable.’

Personally, Bartholomew thought that a good part of Cambridge would benefit from being treated to such a potion, but he held
his peace. He hoped the stench of burning feathers would not make his arrogant nephew ill.

‘Kenyngham informed me today that you attended certain meetings in St Radegund’s Convent,’ he said, not entirely truthfully,
as he worked. The fingers that had been wiggling in a tentative trial of movement, stopped abruptly.

‘He should not have said that,’ said Pechem sharply. ‘I told Brother Michael when he questioned me earlier this evening that
I did not know what he was talking about.’

‘You lied to him,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘We all swore an oath. We vowed never to reveal the subjects that were discussed.’

‘Did you make that vow to Walcote?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because if you did, then I suggest that the time has come for openness.
Walcote is dead, and Michael is certain that whatever was discussed at the meetings has a bearing on the case.’

‘Michael would think that,’ said Pechem. ‘But what we discussed had nothing to do with him.’

‘You should let Michael be the judge of that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And now it seems his life may be in danger. You should tell
him what you know before more lives are lost – especially his. He is my friend, and I do not want to see him come to harm.’

Pechem’s eyes appeared from beneath the bed-covers, small and black in a face that was flushed from the warmth of the furs.
‘But we discussed nothing that will endanger Brother Michael.’

‘Then what did you talk about?’

‘The fact that the nominalism–realism debate seems to be gaining more importance than it warrants. Walcote, to give him his
due, tried to suggest that both sides should meet and battle out the issue in the debating hall, but none of us thought that
was a good idea.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, because we realists might have lost the argument, for a start,’ said Pechem. ‘Some of those nominalists are clever
men – especially the Benedictines and the Austin canons. The Dominicans would have presented us with no problem, since they
have no good scholars to speak of.’

‘Is that the only reason you did not want an open debate?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that it was a poor theory if its proponents
declined to expound it in the lecture halls lest they lost.

‘It was the biggest one. The other was that we did not want a riot on our hands. The Carmelites and the Dominicans, in particular,
were on the verge of a fight, and we did not want a public occasion to provide the spark to set them on fire.’

‘And what else was discussed?’ asked Bartholomew.

Pechem sighed. ‘I suppose now that Kenyngham has revealed what he knows it makes no difference whether I keep my silence or
not. We had plans to donate money anonymously to the town for the Great Bridge to be repaired.’

‘Why does that call for secrecy?’ asked Bartholomew, who already knew from Adam that repairs to the bridge were discussed.

‘Have you used the Great Bridge recently?’ asked Pechem, answering with a question of his own.

There had been a bridge over the River Cam since at least the ninth century, and William the Conqueror had raised another
to link his newly built castle with the rest of the town. Gradually, the Conqueror’s bridge had fallen into disrepair, and
in the 1270s a tax had been imposed on the town to build another. The money had promptly been pocketed by the Sheriff, who
then declined to produce a new bridge and made superficial repairs to the old one instead. Since then, stone piers had been
built, but the wooden planking was soft and rotten with age. The long wet winter had not helped, and the few remaining sound
timbers had been stolen by soldiers from the Castle, who wanted to charge people for being rowed across the river in their
boats. Anyone using the bridge therefore did so at considerable peril.

‘Well?’ demanded Pechem, still waiting for his reply. ‘Have you crossed the Great Bridge of late? Most sane men have not.’

‘I avoid it, if I can,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But the townsfolk would be deeply indebted to the religious Orders for repairing
it. Why should you keep such charity secret?’

‘Because we do not want the town thinking we have so much money that we can afford to scatter it in all directions,’ snapped
Pechem. ‘If we did mend the thing, it would have to be funded discreetly.’

‘Is that all you talked about at these meetings? Repairing the Great Bridge and how to avoid a proper debate with the nominalists?’

Pechem sighed and gnawed at his bottom lip. ‘We discussed a theft from one of the University chests,’ he said reluctantly.

‘What theft?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘What was stolen?’

‘Deeds, books, all sorts of things,’ said Pechem. ‘The main University Chest is a large box stored in the tower of St Mary’s
Church. Since an attempt was made to steal it some years ago, a duplicate chest has been stored at the Carmelite Friary.’

‘I know all this,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But when did this recent theft happen? I always understood that St Mary’s tower was
virtually impregnable these days, and that it was impossible to gain access to it without the right keys.’

‘So it is,’ said Pechem. ‘It was the chest at the Carmelite Friary that was ransacked, not the one in St Mary’s Church.’

‘
When
was it attacked?’ asked Bartholomew a second time.

‘Christmas.’

‘That was months ago. Why was it kept secret?’

‘That is easy to answer,’ said Pechem. ‘When it was discovered that the chest
had been breached, Prior Lincolne – who, as head of the Carmelite Order in Cambridge, is responsible for guarding it – immediately
sent for the Junior Proctor to investigate.’

‘Why Walcote? Why not Michael? Presumably, this theft was taken very seriously?’

‘Very seriously,’ agreed Pechem. ‘But we could not have Brother Michael investigating the theft, could we?’

‘Why not?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘He is the Senior Proctor. It is his job.’

‘Perhaps it is,’ said Pechem. ‘But not when there was plenty of evidence to suggest that it was Michael who committed the
theft in the first place.’

Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, and was admitted by a student because the College was short of night porters. Martin
Arbury had been reading by candlelight, and asked the physician for a summary of Heytesbury’s position on accelerating motion.
Bartholomew obliged, and the youngster listened intently before returning to his studies.

Bartholomew wanted to talk to Michael, but he discovered that the monk and Langelee had done some serious harm to Langelee’s
barrel of wine, and were still ensconced in comradely bonhomie next to the fire, toasting each other’s health. Their carousing
could be heard all over the courtyard, and was probably keeping more than one weary student from his sleep. The physician
wondered how Langelee felt able to justify the heavy fines he imposed on the scholars he caught doing the same thing.

He declined to join them, and instead went to Kenyngham’s room. He knocked softly on the door and slipped inside. Kenyngham
was asleep, as were the three students who shared his room. They lay on straw mattresses that were stored under Kenyngham’s
bed during the day and were brought out to cover the whole floor at night. Their steady breathing indicated that Bartholomew’s
entry had not woken them, and he wondered whether they had been at the wine themselves, for the sounds of Langelee and Michael
enjoying themselves in the room virtually above their heads were deafening. He sat on the edge of Kenyngham’s bed and shook
the elderly Gilbertine awake.

‘I know what you discussed at these meetings,’ he whispered when the friar sat up rubbing his eyes. ‘The theft from the chest
in the Carmelite Friary.’

He heard Kenyngham sigh softly. ‘Come outside, Matthew. My students mark all seven offices at church during Holy Week, and
it will not do if they fall asleep during them
because you want to talk to me in the middle of the night.’

If Kenyngham’s students were attending all the religious offices, as well as their morning lectures, no wonder they all slept
so deeply, thought Bartholomew. He waited for Kenyngham to draw on a pair of shoes, then followed him into the courtyard.

‘What is that?’ asked Kenyngham, as his sleep-befuddled wits sharpened and he became aware of the row emanating from Langelee’s
room. ‘I am surprised the Master permits such a racket at this time of night.’

‘I visited Prior Pechem tonight,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told me about the Carmelites’ theft.’

‘He should not have done that,’ said Kenyngham, gazing up at the dark sky above. ‘But now you know, I suppose there is no
point in further secrecy. I wish you had not meddled: you are Michael’s friend.’

‘Michael is not a thief,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He skates on thin ice from time to time, but he would never steal.’

‘The evidence suggests otherwise,’ said Kenyngham. ‘He was the only person with access to a key, other than Chancellor Tynkell.’

‘That means nothing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Someone could have used a knife to prise the chest open.’

‘The master locksmith inspected it the morning after the theft. He told Walcote that it had been breached because someone
had a key, not because it had been forced open.’

‘But Tynkell – or even Michael himself – could have mislaid the key or left it unguarded, enabling someone else to make a
copy,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘This so-called “evidence” of yours does not prove that Michael is a criminal.’

‘I have not finished yet,’ said Kenyngham. ‘Michael was actually
seen
entering the friary by at least two people the evening the theft was committed. Walcote interviewed every Carmelite, and
it was ascertained beyond the shadow of a doubt that he had visited no one there that night.’

‘But a good deal of Michael’s business is secret,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Remember what happened when Langelee
revealed his pending arrangements with Heytesbury last year? There was a perfectly honest explanation, but he could not tell
anyone because of the delicacy of the negotiations.’

‘There is yet more evidence against Michael,’ Kenyngham went on. ‘The same night, he was seen by his own beadles carrying
a bulging bag from Milne Street – where the Carmelite Friary is located – to Michaelhouse. Michael told them it contained
fresh bread as a gift to his Michaelhouse colleagues. But we had no fresh bread that morning.’

‘How can you be sure of that?’ demanded Bartholomew, becoming distressed as Kenyngham’s accusations mounted. ‘I doubt you
remember what you had for breakfast this morning, let alone what you ate months ago, and Michael
does
occasionally buy bread for us.’

‘But I do remember, Matthew,’ Kenyngham insisted. ‘It was Christmas Day. Traditionally, we give the parish children their
breakfast then, but that morning we only had stale bread to offer.’