An Order for Death (38 page)

He tossed and turned in an exhausting half-sleep, while his mind teemed with questions. He was restless enough to become quite
hot, and the moist blankets stuck to him in a restricting kind of way that made him hotter still. At last he sat up, knowing
that he would be unable to rest properly until he had spoken to Michael. He listened carefully,
trying to hear whether the monk was still with Langelee, or whether he had returned to his room. A small creak from above
indicated that he was at home, and was probably sitting at his table, working in the silence of the night.

Now grateful for the sensation of cool stone against his bare skin, Bartholomew walked across his room and opened the door,
stepping into the small hallway beyond. Lamplight still gleamed under the window shutters in Langelee’s quarters, and he imagined
that Michael was not the only one to take the opportunity of the peace and quiet to do some work. He heard the bell of St
Mary begin to toll, announcing the office of nocturns for those who were awake. It was three o’clock.

He turned, and began to grope his way forward until he encountered the wooden stairs that led to the upper floor, swearing
under his breath when he stubbed his toe a second time that evening, this time on the metal scraper on which scholars were
supposed to remove the worst of the mud from their shoes before entering their rooms. It was heavy and hard, and Bartholomew
hopped around for several moments in mute agony as the pain shot through his foot. He hoped his inadvertent antics had not
disturbed the scholars who were sleeping in the room opposite.

In Michaelhouse, each ‘staircase’ had four rooms: two on the ground floor and two on the upper floor. Suttone, the skeletal
Carmelite, lived in the room opposite Bartholomew’s, and the sounds of snoring that issued through the door suggested that
he and his room-mates were doing what all decent people should be doing so late in the night – which was certainly not preparing
to tell a friend that he was accused of murder and theft.

Bartholomew turned to the stairs and began to climb. They were rough and gritty under his bare feet, and at one point he trod
on something soft. He did not even want to consider what it might be, and made a mental note to ask Agatha to see it cleaned
up the following day.

The chamber opposite Michael’s was occupied by three
elderly men whom Langelee had admitted to the College. They were priests who found the daily running of a parish too much
and who wanted nothing more than to be provided with a bed at night, regular meals and a little teaching. The snores emanating
from the old men’s chamber were even louder than the ones issuing from Suttone’s room, and Bartholomew wondered whether he
would feel the door vibrating if he put his hand on it.

There was a ribbon of light under Michael’s door, and another slight creak indicated that the monk was moving between the
table and the shelves where he kept his pens and parchment, treading softly so that he would not disturb Bartholomew sleeping
below. The physician was about to unlatch the door, when he heard the unmistakable sound of Michael laugh. But it had not
come from his own chamber: it had come from Langelee’s quarters across the courtyard, where, it seemed, he was still enjoying
the Master’s hospitality.

Then who was moving so carefully in the monk’s room? Was it a Michaelhouse colleague looking for a book or a scroll that might
have been borrowed from the College’s library? But it was late to be ransacking the room of a friend for a book, and most
people would have waited until the morning to ask for it. The only alternative was that it was an intruder from outside the
College, and that whoever it was had no business to be there.

Bartholomew considered his options. He could run across the yard to fetch Michael and Langelee, both of whom were large men
and a match for any would-be thief. But the intruder might escape while Bartholomew was rousing them, and then they would
never know his identity. He supposed he could wake Suttone and his students, but Suttone was not a man noted for courage,
and Bartholomew was afraid he would decline to help and forbid his students to become involved, too. There was only one real
choice: he would have to approach the intruder himself. He had heard no voices, so he assumed the burglar was alone.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, and was reaching out to unclip the latch when the light disappeared as the candle
was extinguished. Simultaneously, the door was jerked open. Bartholomew had a brief glimpse of a hooded outline in the doorway
and heard a sharp intake of breath when, presumably, the intruder also saw Bartholomew. For a moment, neither of them did
anything. Then the intruder struck.

Bartholomew found himself wrestled against the wall with one arm twisted behind his back. It happened so quickly that he had
no time to react, and he was unable to move. Light footsteps tapped on the stairs as he was held still while someone else
fled. So, there had been two people after all. He opened his mouth to yell, but the sound froze in his throat when he felt
the prick of a knife against his throat. He tried to struggle, but the person who held him was strong and experienced, and
he was barely able to breathe, let alone wriggle free.

He kicked backwards, but this only resulted in him being held even tighter. Then he became aware that his captor was bracing
himself, and had the distinct impression the man was preparing to use the knife that lay in a cold line across his neck. Desperation
gave Bartholomew the strength he needed. Gritting his teeth against the searing pain of his bent arm, he pushed away from
the wall with all his might and succeeded in freeing himself.

Twisting around quickly, he kicked out as hard as he could, but his bare feet made little impression on the shadowy figure
that now advanced with serious purpose. In the gloom of the hallway he saw the silhouette of a long, wicked-looking knife,
and threw himself backwards as the blade began to descend. A metallic screech sounded as the knife blade met with plaster
instead of flesh. He lunged at the intruder while the man was off-balance from the force of the blow, and succeeded in gripping
the arm that wielded the knife. He opened his mouth to yell for help, but the intruder was an experienced fighter who knew
that if
Bartholomew raised the alarm he would be caught. He reacted quickly, and the howl died in Bartholomew’s throat as the intruder
let himself fall backwards, pulling Bartholomew with him.

Still desperately trying to gain control of the knife, Bartholomew and his attacker crashed down the stairs in a confused
tangle of arms and legs. The intruder landed on top, and used the advantage to struggle free of Bartholomew’s grasp and head
for the rectangle of faint light that marked the door. Bartholomew leapt to his feet to follow, but the shoe scraper was in
the way, and he fell headlong. He glanced up in time to see a dark figure reach the wicket gate, tug it open and disappear
into the lane outside.

Suttone’s door flew open, and Bartholomew heard the scratch of tinder before the wavering halo of a candle illuminated the
hallway. He climbed to his feet, but Suttone’s students were milling around, and by the time he had extricated himself from
them, it was too late to follow. The intruder would have reached the top of Foule Lane, and there was no way of telling whether
he had turned towards the river, where he could hide among the wharfs, reeds and long grass that ran along the banks, or towards
the High Street, where he could evade the night patrols by concealing himself in the overgrown churchyards of All Saints in
the Jewry, St Clement’s or St John Zachary. Bartholomew knew that pursuit was futile. He closed his eyes in mute frustration
and allowed himself to slide down the wall until he was in a sitting position.

‘My dear fellow,’ cried Suttone in alarm, rushing to kneel next to him. ‘What has happened?’

‘He has been drinking with Brother Michael and Master Langelee all night,’ said one of the students knowledgeably. ‘It would
not be difficult to fall down the stairs after a night of wine with those two. I certainly could not keep up with them.’

‘I have not been drinking,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Someone broke into Michael’s room and produced a knife
when I tried to stop him. Will someone fetch him and tell him what has happened?’

‘Why would anyone want to burgle Michael?’ asked Suttone, nodding to one of his students to do as Bartholomew asked. ‘He owns
nothing worth stealing. None of us do, otherwise we would all eat something other than fish-giblet soup for dinner.’

‘Well, someone did,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘You can see from here that the wicket gate is open, where this man made
his escape.’

Suttone screwed up his eyes as he squinted in the darkness. ‘You are right. Go and secure it quickly, before we have marauding
Dominicans in here.’

This last comment was directed at another of his students, who obligingly sped away to re-lock the door. Now that the skirmish
was over and the attackers had fled, Bartholomew felt an unpleasant queasiness in his stomach. It was partly because he was
cold, but it was also because he realised he had been foolish to try to take on the intruders alone, and that he should have
fetched help. Not only had he rashly risked his life, but he had thrown away an opportunity to learn more about the case that
had seen the University’s Junior Proctor murdered and the Senior Proctor facing charges of theft.

‘Martin Arbury is on duty this week, because Walter the porter is away,’ said Suttone. ‘I agreed to exempt him from a disputation,
because Master Langelee thought he would be in no fit state for an examination if he had been awake all night. We discussed
it at the last Fellows’ meeting, if you recall.’

Bartholomew began to cross the yard, hobbling on the stones and grit that hurt his bare feet. ‘Arbury is a reliable lad. What
was he thinking of to let that pair of thieves in?’

As he drew closer to the gate, the answer to his question became clear. Arbury was half sitting and half lying against the
wall of the porters’ lodge, all but invisible as his black
tabard blended into the darkness that surrounded him. His fair head lolled to one side, and there was a pitchy stain on the
ground beneath him.

‘Oh, no!’ whispered Suttone in horror, his big hands fumbling to cross himself. ‘What has happened? Is he dead?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, after a brief examination revealed that the lad was cool to the touch and that there was no life-beat
in his neck. ‘Someone has stabbed him.’

B
ARTHOLOMEW WAS COVERING ARBURY’S FACE WITH A
sheet when Michael and Langelee arrived. The warm, sweet smell of wine preceded them, and Bartholomew questioned whether
either was in a fit state to understand what had happened. Langelee’s florid face was sweaty, and his eyes were puffy and
red. Michael looked no different than usual, although he was slightly flushed. Cynric was among those who came hurrying to
see what the fuss was about, with Clippesby’s arm held firmly in one hand.

‘My God!’ breathed Langelee, looking at the body of the student in horror.

‘Two people were ransacking your room,’ Bartholomew explained to Michael. ‘I tried to catch them, but they escaped.’

‘I told you,’ wailed Clippesby. ‘I warned you tonight that there were bad men at large. You repaid me by locking me away.’

Bartholomew inspected him closely. ‘Did you see them?’

Clippesby shook his head. ‘The owls told me. But I saw them enter the College, when I was looking out of the window. I yelled
to you, but Cynric told me to be quiet.’

‘Who were they?’ demanded Michael. ‘Did you see their faces?’

Clippesby swallowed. ‘Two men wearing dark clothes. They were just shadows in the dark.’

‘And what about you?’ asked Michael, turning to Bartholomew. ‘Can you identify them?’

‘No. One drew a knife, and we pushed and shoved at each other before he toppled us both down the stairs. As Clippesby says,
it was dark.’

‘What were you thinking of ?’ snapped Michael furiously. ‘You are not a beadle, and you should not be challenging armed intruders
to fights in the middle of the night.’

‘I have no intention of making a habit of this,’ replied Bartholomew testily, nettled by Michael’s anger.

‘And these intruders stabbed Arbury on their way out?’ asked Langelee, kneeling unsteadily next to the dead scholar and pulling
the sheet away so that he could inspect the young man’s face. ‘He is very cold. I must raise some funds so that the students
on guard duty have a fire—’

‘He is cold because he was stabbed hours ago,’ interrupted Bartholomew impatiently. Langelee was often slow on the uptake,
but large quantities of wine had made him worse. ‘I imagine he opened the door to these men, and they knifed him so that they
could enter without him raising the alarm.’

‘And then they went to my room?’ asked Michael, his eyes huge in his flabby face.

Bartholomew sighed irritably. ‘I have no idea what they did next. All I can tell you is that I caught them leaving your chamber.’

‘All right, Matt,’ said Michael gently. ‘I know you are distressed by yet another unnecessary death – as am I – but that is
no reason to snap at me. I am only trying to learn what happened.’

Bartholomew rubbed his hand through his hair and stared away into the darkness of the night. Michael was right: the incident
had left him badly shaken. But it was his own stupidity that made him angry. He should not have tried to take on the intruders
without summoning help, and he now wished he had listened to Clippesby when he had met him earlier that evening. For all his
ravings, the Dominican occasionally made very astute observations, and the physician realised he should not have dismissed
him so readily.

Langelee stood, grabbing Michael’s arm to steady himself. ‘Arbury is clearly beyond anything Bartholomew can do, so I commit
him to your hands, Suttone. You can mount a vigil
for him. Take him to the hall, though, not to the church. I do not want you leaving Michaelhouse at this hour of the night
when there are killers at large.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘But before Suttone removes Arbury, is there anything you need
to do? I know your examination of bodies in the past has helped you to identify killers.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘All I can tell you is that he died from a single wound to the chest, and that he bled to death.’

‘And you think this happened some time ago, because he is cold?’ clarified Langelee.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But I cannot tell you exactly when.’

‘I see,’ said Langelee. He turned to Michael. ‘We should go to your room, to see whether anything is missing.’

‘Nothing will be missing,’ replied Michael. ‘I have very little to steal.’

‘What about your collection of gold crosses?’ asked Langelee immediately. ‘And your fine array of habits and expensive cloaks?
And since your office at St Mary’s is not particularly secure, I expect you store certain documents here, too.’

Michael shook his head. ‘I keep my crosses behind a stone in the hearth – and I defy even Cynric to identify which one. Meanwhile,
there is not exactly a thriving market for used Benedictine garments. Mine are distinctively large, and a thief would be caught
immediately if he tried to sell any of those at Ely Hall.’

‘And the documents?’ asked Bartholomew.

The monk shrugged. ‘Anything important is locked in the chests at St Mary’s or the Carmelite Friary. There is nothing in my
room worth taking.’

‘We should check anyway,’ said Langelee, beginning to walk across the courtyard towards Michael’s room.

Bartholomew and Michael followed him, leaving Suttone and his students to carry Arbury to the hall and begin their prayers
for a soul that had died without the benefit of final
absolution. As he climbed the stairs, Bartholomew saw the deep groove where the knife had raked the plaster in the wall.
He shivered, not wanting to think of the force behind a blow that had left such a mark. Michael reached out to touch it, then
turned to scowl at the physician, making it clear that he was unimpressed by the foolish risk his friend had taken.

The shock of the brief encounter with the intruders and finding Arbury dead was beginning to take its toll. Bartholomew felt
exhausted, while his bare feet were so cold that he could barely feel them. The chill reached right through his bones to settle
in the pit of his stomach, and he wondered whether he would ever be warm again.

Langelee pushed open the door to Michael’s room and the three scholars looked around them. Michael’s possessions had been
dragged from their shelves and chests and scattered, so that the chamber looked as if a violent wind had torn through it.
Michael took a sharp intake of breath when he saw the mess, and Langelee whistled, holding up the lamp so that it illuminated
every corner.

‘The thief was certainly thorough. I wonder if he found what he wanted.’

‘They,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘There were two of them. I heard the feet of one running down the stairs, while the other fought
with me.’

‘So, the first intruder did battle with you to allow the other to escape,’ summarised Langelee. ‘Was the first bigger than
the second?’

‘I did not see the one who ran,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I only heard his footsteps. I suppose he did sound small and light,
though. Or perhaps he was on tiptoe because he was in the middle of a burglary. I really do not know.’

‘And the first?’ pressed Langelee. ‘Is there anything you can tell us about him? Was he taller than you? Fatter? Was he wearing
a cloak, or just hose and shirt? Was there anything at all that you remember about him – perhaps a distinctive smell or a
peculiar physical feature.’

‘It was dark,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘And he was waving a knife at me. I noticed very little about him, other than that.
He knew what he was doing, though; he was a competent fighter.’

‘And you took him on,’ muttered Michael. He slumped down on his bed and surveyed the mess with round eyes. ‘I do not know
whether I am more angry with you for risking your life, or with whoever had the audacity to enter the Senior Proctor’s College
and go through his personal effects.’

‘Have you been keeping a record of your murder investigation?’ asked Langelee, sitting next to him and scratching his head
as he tried to think of reasons why Michael’s room should have been subjected to such treatment. ‘Perhaps that is what they
were looking for, so that they could see how close you are to catching them.’

‘I am not close at all,’ said Michael gloomily. He picked up a linen shirt that had been tossed carelessly on the floor, flinging
it just as carelessly on to the chest that stood under the window. As he did so, something fell out. Bartholomew leaned down
to retrieve it. It was a tiny glove, like something that had been made for a child.

‘A boy was one of the intruders?’ asked Langelee, taking it from him and turning it over in his hands. ‘I suppose it makes
sense. A small child could search places that an adult could not reach. I have heard of monkeys being used for such purposes.’

‘You said the footsteps of the second intruder sounded light,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Could they have belonged to a
child?’

‘It is possible,’ said Bartholomew, snatching the glove from Langelee and inspecting it in the candlelight. ‘But I do not
think this belongs to a child. I think it belongs to Prior Morden, the leader of the Dominicans.’

It was nearing dawn, and the dense black of the sky was just beginning to show signs of brightening, although it would be
another hour before it was light enough to see. Even at
that early hour the town was stirring, and a lone cart could be heard rattling up the High Street on its way to the Market
Square. A dog barked, and somewhere two people were greeting each other cheerfully. A dampness was in the faint wind that
rustled the few dead leaves remaining on the winter branches, threatening more rain that day, and the sky was its usual leaden
grey.

Bartholomew sat with Michael in Langelee’s room, sipping near-boiling ale that he knew nevertheless would not drive out the
chilly sensation that still sat in the pit of his stomach.

‘And you say young Arbury was alive when you returned from tending Pechem at the Franciscan Friary?’ asked Langelee of Bartholomew
again. ‘He opened the gate for you?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘He had been reading Heytes-bury’s
Regulae Solvendi Sophismata
, and he asked me a question about it.’

‘Then you went to the kitchens, and on the way back the bells were chiming for the midnight vigil and you heard him groan,’
Langelee went on.

‘Not quite,’ said Bartholomew. He did not want to tell Michael about Kenyngham’s accusation in front of Langelee, who had
demonstrated in the past that he was not averse to using such information to suit his own ends. He would speak to the monk
later, when they were alone. ‘I heard a groan, but I thought it was Suttone or his students making noises in their sleep.
I realise now that it may have been Arbury. I wish I had checked.’

‘But Clippesby knew what was happening,’ said Michael. ‘Damn the man! If he was not so habitually strange, you would have
known to take him seriously.’

‘Arbury’s injury was serious; you would not have been able to save him anyway,’ said Langelee kindly. ‘I am no physician,
but I have seen my share of knife wounds. I think it would have made no difference whether you had found him three hours earlier
or not.’

‘We could have asked who attacked him, though,’ said Michael. ‘And we might have caught his murderers, who then spent half
the night rummaging in my room.’

‘But more important yet, I might have been able to make his last moments more comfortable,’ snapped Bartholomew, nettled by
Michael’s pragmatic approach to the student’s death. ‘He would not have bled to death all alone and in the bitter chill of
a March night.’

Michael’s large face became gentle. ‘I am sorry, Matt. I did not mean to sound callous. It is just that I now have four murders
to investigate – Faricius, Kyrkeby, Walcote and Arbury – and I have no idea what to do about any of them.’

‘At least you know the motive for Arbury’s death,’ said Langelee. ‘He was killed because someone wanted to search your room.
Either they stabbed him as soon as he opened the gate, or they killed him when he would not let them in.’

‘The former, probably,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘And if Matt is right, then they spent at least three hours searching my
room – from the beginning of the midnight vigil, by which time Arbury had been stabbed, until he heard the bells chime for
nocturns, when they were just leaving.’

‘What do you possess – or what do they think you possess – that would warrant such an exhaustive search?’ asked Langelee.
He gestured around his own quarters. ‘It would not take anyone long to rifle through my belongings, even including all the
College muniments.’

‘I really cannot imagine what they wanted,’ said Michael. ‘As I told you, I leave the most sensitive documents in the University
chests.’

‘All of them?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are you sure there is nothing that you might have brought home? And Langelee has a good
point – perhaps we should consider what they may have
thought
you had, rather than what you actually do have.’

‘What about the deed signing the two farms and the church to Oxford?’ asked Langelee. ‘Where do you keep
that? Presumably there is only one copy, because Heytesbury has not signed it yet – there would be no point in copying it
until he has agreed to its contents.’

Michael dropped his hand to his scrip. ‘I have that in here. I do not know when Heytesbury will agree to sign, and so I have
been carrying it about with me recently, so I can be ready the moment he relents. But why would anyone want to steal that?’

‘Because they do not want you to pass this property to Oxford?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Thanks to Langelee, a lot of people
know you have some kind of arrangement in progress, and not everyone is sufficiently far sighted to see that you have the
ultimate good of Cambridge in mind.’

‘I have apologised for that
ad nauseam
,’ protested Langelee wearily. ‘How much longer will you hold it against me?’

‘I suppose someone may think that the best way to prevent Oxford from getting what is perceived to be valuable property is
to steal the deed of transfer,’ said Michael, ignoring Langelee’s objections and addressing Bartholomew. ‘But we are forgetting
that one of the culprits seems to have been Prior Morden. I did not know he felt so strongly about it.’