An Order for Death (40 page)

‘Heytesbury and Morden?’ asked Michael, amused. ‘They would make odd bedfellows.’

‘Heytesbury might have hired someone else to commit the burglary,’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘He is not stupid, and would not risk
being caught stealing from the Senior Proctor’s room himself.’

‘We will put these questions to Morden later today,’ said Michael. ‘But I think you are wrong. And anyway, the person in Cambridge
whom Heytesbury seems to like best is your nephew Richard. The lad has taken to carrying ornate daggers and riding black war-horses
around the town. Perhaps he has also taken to burglary.’

‘No!’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Not Richard. He may be a fool, but he is not a criminal.’

Michael shrugged. ‘As I said, we will ask Morden.’

‘Several important issues were discussed at Walcote’s meetings,’ said Bartholomew, dragging his thoughts away from the unpleasant
possibility that Richard might have been the man who attacked him on the darkened stairwell. ‘Besides repairing the Great
Bridge and discussing philosophy, they talked about the plot to murder you and the theft from the friary. I wonder whether
Walcote thought the two subjects were connected.’

‘You think he believed that someone wanted me dead, because I am seen as a thief ?’ asked Michael. He blew out his cheeks
in a sigh. ‘It is possible, I suppose.’

‘Some people believe that Walcote’s investigation of the theft led him too close to the culprit,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
‘Pechem and Kenyngham saw an association between his death and the theft you committed.’

Michael’s face was sombre. ‘I can accept that people see me as the kind of man to steal, but I cannot imagine how
they could see me –
me
– as the kind of man to take the life of my deputy.’

‘What shall we do about it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It was my original intention to prove you innocent of the theft, so that
you would be absolved of the murder. Your confession just now has put paid to that plan.’

‘Then we shall just have to go one step further, and find Walcote’s killer instead. That will prove me innocent beyond any
shadow of a doubt.’

They were silent for a while, each wrapped in his own thoughts.

‘Did you know that Walcote made a list of the documents you took from the Carmelite Friary?’ asked Bartholomew eventually.

Michael nodded. ‘He jotted down his initial report in rough, then scribed it more neatly for the Chancellor – who knows exactly
why I removed those particular items, before you ask. Carelessly, Walcote discarded his first copy in the box where we keep
used parchment. I found it later.’

‘It was among the scraps in your room.’

‘I meant to burn it, but I forgot. It must have sat there undisturbed and forgotten for three months, until you discovered
it by chance.’

‘Why did the Chancellor not tell Walcote that the theft from the Carmelite Friary was not what it seemed?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Did Tynkell distrust Walcote?’

‘He considered him too gentle and too easily led. Tynkell decided not to tell Walcote the truth about the “theft”, although
he was obliged to ask him to investigate. It would have looked odd had he instructed him to forget about it.’

Bartholomew was feeling exhausted by the twists and turns the plot had taken. He was also hungry, and was grateful when the
bell chimed to announce that breakfast was ready.

‘And there are other things I do not understand,’ Michael went on as they walked slowly towards the hall, ‘such as what
is Simon Lynne’s role in all this? I am sure he is connected in some way, because I am positive he is lying.’

‘And Tysilia and the meetings at St Radegund’s,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is a link between her and Walcote, I am sure.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael noncommittally, ‘although I am less convinced of that than you. We shall visit Matilde again today,
to see if she has learned anything new.’

Matilde. Bartholomew sighed at yet another aspect of the case that was worrying him, and he wished with all his heart that
she was anywhere but at St Radegund’s with Tysilia for company.

Michael nudged him in the ribs, and gave a weak grin. ‘Do not look so sombre, Matt. I know this has not been a pleasant night,
but we will solve this mystery. And we will have Arbury’s killers brought to justice.’

‘But not by Easter Day,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You claimed we would have this mess cleaned up before Sunday, and it is Friday
already.’

‘That was when I had only two deaths to investigate, and when the case seemed less complex. I had not anticipated that more
people would die. The wager we had, giving the winner an evening of indulgence at the Brazen George, is now invalid. What
are your plans today? Will you help me?’

‘I have patients to see,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Then I will accompany you, and you can assist me when you have finished,’ suggested Michael. ‘Now that the only decent student
you ever had – Tom Bulbeck – has gone to make his fortune in Norwich, you are in need of a good assistant.’

‘I have other students,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting Michael with him while he did his rounds. Although he often did take
his students with him, he preferred to work alone. Most people did not take kindly to spotty youths poking at them and asking
impertinent questions, and he knew that the sick were more likely to be honest about embarrassing symptoms if there was not
a crowd of undergraduates listening
with mawkish fascination. And Michael would be worse. He would not like hearing descriptions of bowel movements and phlegm
production, and was likely to intimidate any nervous patients with his impatience and distaste.

‘None of your students will compare with me,’ bragged Michael. ‘You will see. Once you have seen me in action, you will never
want a student with you again.’

‘Very well,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly, seeing that the monk was not to be deterred and that he would have company that
morning, whether he wanted it or not.

‘We shall see your patients as soon as we have eaten breakfast, and when we have done that, we will return this glove to Prior
Morden and ask him how he came to lose it. And then I think it is time we paid another visit to St Radegund’s Convent. The
time for lies and deceit is over, Matt. We shall put the fear of God into all these people who have been lying to us – Lincolne,
Morden, Simon Lynne, Horneby and those disgraceful women at St Radegund’s Convent – and then we shall have some answers.’

‘My God, Matt!’ breathed Michael, as they emerged from the single-roomed shack near the river where Dunstan, one of Bartholomew’s
oldest patients, lived. ‘How can you stand to do things like that day after day?’

‘The same way you are happy dealing with the crimes of the University, I imagine,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘Although I do not
see what you are making a fuss about. None of the cases this morning have been particularly difficult.’

‘Not for you, perhaps,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I have a new-found admiration for you, Matt. You have nerves of steel and
nothing revolts you – not the phlegm that old man had been saving for your inspection, not that festering wound that smelled
as though its owner was three days dead, and not prodding about in that screeching child’s infected ear. No wonder you do
not object to examining bodies for me. It is a pleasure for you after what your living patients require you to do.’

‘Do you plan to help me in the future?’ asked Bartholomew mildly, smiling at the monk’s vehemence. ‘You promised that I would
never want a student after I had been assisted by you.’

‘You probably will not,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘I have no doubts that I dealt with your patients better than would any of
your would-be physicians. But I am not for hire. You will have to manage without me.’

‘How will I cope?’ asked Bartholomew, amused.

‘Now you have finished, we should begin the real business of the day,’ said Michael, taking Bartholomew’s arm and steering
him up one of the lanes that ran between the river and the High Street. ‘We must talk seriously to Morden about his glove,
then I want to question Eve Wasteneys again: I want to know whether Dame Martyn’s “nephew” – Lynne – still lingers with his
“aunt”.’

‘Not if he has any sense,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was frightened of something, and abandoned the Carmelite Friary very promptly.
He may be at Barnwell, though. Perhaps we should look for him there, as well as St Radegund’s.’

As they walked along the High Street, they met Brother Timothy outside St Mary’s Church. He had been giving the beadles their
daily instructions, and was just dispatching the last of them to go about their business. He was grimly satisfied to hear
they finally had a solid clue regarding the mystery, and willingly agreed to accompany them to arrest Morden. Together, the
three of them made their way to the Dominican Friary, where Timothy knocked politely at the gate.

While they waited for an answer, Timothy nodded down at his cloak. ‘Look at this. What a mess, eh?’

Bartholomew had already noticed that instead of the black prescribed by the Benedictine Order, Timothy’s cloak was a uniform
and rather tatty grey.

‘You should invest in another garment,’ advised Michael, regarding it doubtfully. ‘No self-respecting Benedictine wants to
be mistaken for a Franciscan – and you will be, if you wear that.’

Timothy grimaced. ‘It was filthy from wandering around Cambridge’s muddy streets, and so I took it to Yolande de Blaston to
be cleaned.’

‘Yolande de Blaston?’ asked Michael. ‘The whore?’

‘She also takes in laundry,’ said Timothy. ‘She is expecting her tenth child, and her whoring days are limited now. She needs
all the money she can lay her hands on for her first nine brats, so all us Benedictines send her our laundry; we feel sorry
for her.’

‘She is not as good a laundress as Agatha,’ said Michael, studying the cloak critically. ‘Yolande used water that was too
hot, and it has taken the colour out.’

Timothy nodded. ‘I shall have to take it to Oswald Stanmore to be re-dyed. Do not mention this to Yolande, will you? I do
not want her to worry that the Benedictines will take their trade elsewhere when she is about to give birth. She has more
than enough to concern her already.’

Bartholomew was impressed that Timothy should consider the feelings of a lowly prostitute when he must have been angry that
his fine cloak had been so badly misused. It was true that Stanmore could re-dye the damaged fabric, but it was unlikely to
be as good as it had been. Bartholomew felt new admiration for a man who was not only prepared to overlook the damage to his
property and the inconvenience of looking like a Franciscan, but was also keen that the perpetrator should not suffer for
it. Timothy was right: Yolande de Blaston was desperately poor, and would need any work provided by the Benedictines.

Eventually, the door was answered by Ringstead, who admitted them to the yard. He told them to wait while he informed Morden
that he had visitors, but Michael was having none of that. Shoving his way past the startled friar, he thundered up the stairs
to Morden’s room and flung open the door so hard that it rattled the candle-holders on the table. An inkwell rolled on to
its side, then dropped to the floor, where a spreading black stain began to inch towards one of Morden’s fine rugs, and something
dark
dropped from the rafters to the floor. At first, Bartholomew thought it was a dead bat. Timothy shot him a nervous glance,
uneasy with an approach so violent that it shook dead animals from the roof.

‘I want a word with you,’ snapped Michael, addressing the diminutive Dominican, who perched on a chair piled with cushions
so that he would be able to reach his table. Small legs clad in fine wool hose swung in the air below.

‘What do you mean by bursting into my room like this?’ demanded Morden, outraged. ‘It is customary to knock. And will you
please
refrain from slamming that door? Next time, I shall send you the bill for the damage you cause.’

‘Does this belong to you?’ demanded Michael, ignoring the Prior’s ire as he removed the small glove from his scrip and tossed
it on to the table.

Morden picked it up, turning it over in his hands in surprise. ‘Where did you find this?’

‘In my room,’ said Michael coldly. ‘It was dropped very late last night, after its owner had stabbed a Michaelhouse student
to death in order to gain access. And not only did this villain kill our student, but he attacked Matt with a knife. I do
not take kindly to people who threaten my friends with weapons.’

Morden’s face turned white as the implications of Michael’s words sunk in. ‘What are you saying, Brother? I can assure you—’

Michael cut through his words. ‘Is this your glove?’ he shouted. ‘Yes or no?’

Morden agreed reluctantly. ‘But it was not I who dropped it at Michaelhouse. It has been missing—’

‘How convenient,’ snapped Michael, his tone of voice making it obvious that he did not believe a word the Prior was saying.
‘And for how long has it been missing?’

Morden shrugged helplessly. ‘I do not know. I seldom go out these days, because of the cold weather. I first noticed it had
gone a couple of days ago, because I had to go to St Mary’s Church to tell the Chancellor that Kyrkeby would
not be able to give the University Lecture. But I have no idea whether it went missing then or whether it has been gone a
lot longer.’

‘And where do you think it might have been?’ asked Timothy. The incredulous expression on his face suggested that he was of
the same mind as Michael. ‘Are you suggesting that someone stole it?’

‘Of course someone took it,’ stated Ringstead firmly, leaping to the defence of his superior. ‘How else could it have ended
up in your room, Brother? I can assure you that Prior Morden did not put it there.’

Michael and Timothy did not reply; they simply gazed at Morden, as if they considered him to be the lowest form of life. Bartholomew
began to feel sorry for the little man – until he looked more closely at what had fallen from the rafters when Michael had
flung open the door.