An Order for Death (39 page)

‘We have never discussed it with him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps he does. He is certainly the kind of man to latch on to
an idea like a limpet and follow it doggedly. He seems to have done exactly that by championing the cause of nominalism.’

Langelee sighed. ‘I am a philosopher by training, but I find this nominalism–realism debate immensely dull. Am I alone in
this? Is there not another living soul who would rather talk about something else?’

‘Not among the religious Orders at the moment,’ said Michael. ‘They are using it as an excuse to rekindle ancient hatreds
of each other. But I did not know that Morden was against passing property to Oxford. After all, Heytesbury is a nominalist,
so Morden should approve.’

‘That is not logical,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just because
Morden is a nominalist does not mean that he is willing to share his worldly goods – or those of his University – with other
nominalists.’

‘You have not explained how you happened to be outside Michael’s room at that hour of the night, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee,
moving on to other questions. ‘Did you hear a sound that roused you from your sleep?’

‘The only sounds I heard were you and Michael finishing that barrel of wine,’ said Bartholomew evasively, so that Langelee
would not ask him what it was that he had considered so pressing that it could not wait until the morning. ‘Doubtless the
killers heard it, too, and they knew that they were safe from discovery as long as Michael was enjoying your wine.’

‘Damn!’ swore Michael softly. ‘If ever there were a moral to a tale condemning the sin of gluttony, it is this. And poor Arbury
paid the price.’

‘Arbury would have died anyway,’ said Langelee. ‘And so might you, had you been asleep in your room and not here with me.’

With a shock, Bartholomew realised that was true, and that Michael’s escape might have been as narrow as his own. He considered
Arbury, and how the intruders – determined to search Michael’s room whether the monk was in it or not – might have gained
access to Michaelhouse. It was obvious, once he thought about it.

‘I have a bad feeling that the killers watched me when I returned from the Franciscan Friary, and then did the same,’ he said.

‘Meaning?’ asked Michael.

‘Meaning that I did what we all do: hammered on the door and demanded to be let in. Arbury opened the wicket gate, I stepped
inside and then pushed back my hood so that he could see who I was. If the killers were watching from the bushes opposite,
it would have been easy to do the same, and then stab the lad before he saw that he should have been more careful.’

‘But the only people who have leave to be outside the College after curfew are you two,’ said Langelee. ‘Arbury
should
have been more careful – especially since he had already admitted Bartholomew, and he probably could hear Michael with me.’

‘That may be true generally, but not this week,’ said Michael. ‘It is Lent, and a number of our scholars have been attending
midnight vigils and nocturns, especially those in the religious Orders. Arbury probably did not know who was out and who was
in.’

Langelee sighed. ‘Catch these killers, Michael. I want to see them hang for this.’

‘I will do my best,’ vowed Michael.

‘Well, the day is beginning,’ said Langelee, going to the window shutters and throwing them open. A blast of cold air flooded
into the room, which rustled the documents and scrolls that lay in untidy piles on the table. ‘We all have work to do.’

‘You seem out of sorts this morning,’ said Michael, as he followed Bartholomew from Langelee’s chamber and across the courtyard.
By unspoken consent, they made their way to the fallen apple tree in the orchard, where they could talk without fear of being
overheard. Their rooms were usually sufficient for that, but neither felt much like being in the chaos of Michael’s chamber,
while Bartholomew’s tended to be plagued by students with questions in the mornings.

It was no warmer in the garden that dawn than it had been during the night, and a thin layer of frost glazed the scrubby grass
and the leaves of Agatha’s herbs. Michael settled himself on the trunk of the fallen apple tree and watched Bartholomew pace
back and forth in front of him.

‘What is the matter?’

‘These murders,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And the fact that I feel as though I am in a river where the current is dragging me relentlessly
somewhere, but I do not know where.’

‘That sounds familiar,’ agreed Michael. ‘I have worked
hard to try to discover what plot is under way that makes necessary the deaths of a talented philosopher called Faricius
of the Carmelites, a very untalented philosopher called Kyrkeby of the Dominicans and my Junior Proctor. I have interviewed
at least fifty people who live near the places where these men were killed or found, and you have examined their bodies. But
neither of us has come up with anything.’

‘What about the cases Walcote was working on before he died?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Have you discovered anything from them?’

Michael shook his head. ‘He was busy, but there was nothing to suggest he was working on something that would result in murder.’

‘What about the plot to kill you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That sounds as though it might lead to murder to me.’

‘But I can find out nothing about that,’ said Michael plaintively. ‘I have questioned my beadles again and again, but none
seems to know anything unusual about Walcote or secret meetings in St Radegund’s Convent. Certainly none of them accompanied
him to any.’

‘Not even the ones who work closest with him?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Tom Meadowman follows you around like a shadow. Did Walcote
have a beadle like that?’

‘If he did, then it would have been Rob Smyth, who drowned at Christmas. He latched himself on to Walcote, although I neither
liked nor trusted the man.’

‘The fact that no one is honest with us does not help,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I did not want to mention it in front of Langelee,
but I persuaded Kenyngham to break his vow of secrecy last night.’

‘You did?’ asked Michael, pleasantly surprised. ‘I will not ask how; I do not want my innocent mind stained by knowledge of
your unscrupulous methods.’

‘There was a theft from the Carmelite Friary,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He thinks you are responsible for it, and so does Warden
Pechem.’

‘What theft?’ asked Michael, puzzled. ‘Do you mean Faricius’s essay? I thought we had reasoned that it had been stolen from
him after he was stabbed on Milne Street. Why do they think I had anything to do with that?’

‘I mean the theft of documents that occurred at Christmas,’ said Bartholomew.

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Michael. ‘What documents?’

Bartholomew edged away from the monk, slightly alarmed by the anger in his voice. ‘According to Pechem and Kenyngham, Lincolne
reported a theft from his friary to Walcote—’

‘Did he now?’ asked Michael softly. ‘And how is it that I have been told nothing about it?’

‘Kenyngham said it was discussed at Walcote’s secret meetings,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the monk uneasily. He had predicted
outrage and indignation when he informed Michael about the rumours that were circulating about him, but not cold fury.

‘And they accuse me of this crime?’ demanded Michael.

Half wishing he had not broached the subject, Bartholomew continued: ‘They said you were seen in the Carmelite Friary the
night the documents went missing; you were spotted carrying a loaded bag away from the friary towards Michaelhouse the same
night; and they told me you claimed it contained bread for your colleagues, when it did not.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. He gazed into Bartholomew’s face. ‘And what do you make of this story? Do you imagine me to be the
kind of man to steal from a friary in the middle of the night?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Of course not, Brother. And I told both Kenyngham and Pechem that they were wrong. But what is
worse than this accusation of theft is that they have reasoned that whoever stole the documents also had a good reason for
killing Walcote.’

Michael gazed up at the bare branches of the trees above
him. ‘They think I murdered Walcote because he was about to expose me as a common thief. Damn Walcote for his suspicious
mind!’

Bartholomew shot him a sidelong glance. ‘I have no doubts about your innocence. We will have to work to prove it to those
who do.’

Michael gave a tired grin. ‘You are a good friend, Matt. I do not deserve such unquestioning loyalty. It makes me feel guilty.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in alarm. ‘What are you saying, Brother?’

Michael shrugged. ‘I see I have disappointed you.’

‘No!’ said Bartholomew, still staring. ‘Are you telling me that Kenyngham and Pechem are right? That you really did break
into the friary and make off with some of the University’s most valuable documents?’

‘Yes and no,’ said Michael. ‘I removed documents, but I was hardly “breaking in”. I had arranged for doors and gates to be
left unlocked and the porter to be drinking ale in the kitchens with a servant who owed me a favour. It was a pity I did not
know about the baker’s problematic oven sooner, because obviously I would not have used buying bread as my excuse for being
caught red-handed on my way home. That was poor planning on my part.’

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, his thoughts tumbling in confusion. ‘But why did you not tell me this sooner?
It may be important.’

‘It is not,’ said Michael dismissively. ‘However, I understand why Walcote thought so. He must have wondered why the Senior
Proctor was raiding friaries in the middle of the night.’

‘He was not the only one,’ said Bartholomew, horrified. ‘So do the heads of half the religious Orders in Cambridge.’

‘It is unfortunate Walcote did not confront me about it, though,’ continued Michael pensively. ‘Then I could have taken him
into my confidence, and he would not have felt the need to chatter about it at his secret meetings with people who had no
right to know my business.’

‘And what was this business?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

Michael glanced at him. ‘I can assure you it was nothing sinister.
The truth is that Prior Lincolne had become somewhat fanatical in his beliefs by Christmas, and I did not like the idea of
storing sensitive information at his friary. Because he is radically opposed to nominalism, I did not want him to see any
of the documents pertaining to the arrangements I am making with Heytesbury – who is a nominalist.’

‘You took the deeds relating to the Oxford proposal?’ asked Bartholomew in sudden understanding.

Michael nodded. ‘I took the property deeds of the church and farms I propose to pass to Heytesbury, along with the information
telling us how profitable they are. Plus, I took priceless books written by other great nominalists, like John Dumbleton and
Richard Swineshead. Lincolne is the kind of man to consign that sort of text to the flames, and I do not approve of book-burning.’

Bartholomew knew Michael was right on that score. When Heytesbury’s
Regulae Solvendi Sophismata
had been found among Faricius’s belongings, Lincolne had ordered it burned without a moment’s hesitation.

‘That was all?’ he asked. ‘You committed the theft only to remove sensitive items from the Carmelite Friary?’

‘Yes,’ Michael confirmed. ‘But I wish you would not insist on calling it a theft. It was nothing of the kind. It was merely
me taking documents from one place and securing them in another. If I were a serious thief, I would have had the gold that
was stored in the chest, too, not just the texts.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, recalling the scrap of parchment he had found in Michael’s room when he had been writing
an account of Faricius’s murder. Walcote’s list of stolen items had mentioned no missing gold.

‘I could hardly be open about what I was doing, could I?’ Michael continued. ‘How do you think Lincolne would have reacted
if I had told him he was no longer to be trusted with some of the University’s business?’

‘He would have been offended,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And he might even have been vindictive.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Michael. ‘This arrangement with Oxford is important, and, after losing the Mastership of Michaelhouse to
it, I did not want all my work to come to nothing because an old bigot like Lincolne got wind of it by rummaging through the
documents stored in his friary.’

‘Where did you put these books and deeds?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You could not store duplicate copies in St Mary’s tower – what
would be the point of keeping two sets in the same place? – and you always claim that you never keep anything valuable in
your office or in your room at Michaelhouse.’

‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘But I
do
keep them in a damp little corner of Michaelhouse’s wine cellars. But only Chancellor Tynkell, Agatha and now you know about
that.’

‘So you had good reason to assume that last night’s intruders did not find what they wanted: you knew that whatever it was
would have been in the cellar?’

Michael rubbed his chin, the bristles rasping under his fingernails. ‘I have already considered the possibility that last
night’s raid was related to the documents I “stole”, and discounted it. I suppose it is remotely possible that someone was
desperate to get his hands on an annotated copy of Dumbleton’s
Summa Logicae et Philosophiae Naturalis
, but I sincerely doubt it. I do not know what these intruders thought they might find, but I cannot believe it was anything
to do with my arrangements with Oxford or the nominalist texts I have safeguarded.’

‘How can you be sure?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I imagine Heytesbury would love to see the finances of the properties he plans
to take from you. Has it occurred to you that he has a very good reason to search your room?’

‘Heytesbury?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘I do not think so, Matt! The man is a scholar, for God’s sake, not a burglar!’

‘He is also a cunning negotiator who is determined to do his best for Oxford,’ argued Bartholomew, declining to
mention that Michael himself was also a scholar, but that did not stop him from removing what he wanted from the Carmelite
Friary. ‘You cannot be sure that he was not one of the intruders.’